Write My Name Across the Sky

by O'Neal, Barbara

  There is also more, video of paintings, and in particular some of Gloria, the ones I found myself. I’m electrified, watching with a sense of the world tilting, rearranging what I know of my aunt, a woman who has essentially been my mother since I was nine years old.

  One painting is highlighted, the one of her looking over her shoulder, and it’s shown against some auctioneer. The story below says the painting sold for 800,000 euros.

  A flush courses through my body, and I swear under my breath. I don’t realize I’ve spoken aloud until Sam says, “What’s wrong?”

  “Um.” For a minute, I waver over spilling the truth. She might really be able to come up with solutions. No. Right now, I can manage on my own. Protect her. I click my phone off. “Nothing. Just some bullshit with a friend of mine.” I stand, tucking the phone in my pocket. “How’re you doing?”

  She notices the note I left on her chest and grabs it, smiling, and endures my hand on her forehead. “I think I might be better.”

  “I think your fever is a lot better.” Her skin is faintly warm, but not like it was.

  “Maybe I can get out of here today. I really need to get back to work. There’s a lot going on.” She swallows, with effort, and I pick up the hospital cup with its straw. With relief, she sucks on the water and adds, “I want to sleep in my own bed.”

  I raise a brow. “Don’t get too carried away, now. You shouldn’t be alone for a couple of days. You should come to G’s so we can take care of you.”

  “Uh, no.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m hardly an invalid.” She touches my arm, a peace offering. “Thanks, though.”

  This vulnerable Sam is the one I love the most. I love all of her, prickliness and all, but this one is . . . easier. So I don’t push the going-home request. No way G will let her go to her apartment.

  If G is even here. The agent’s avid eyes flash over my imagination. What if she gets arrested?

  I force myself to focus on my sister, who is never needy and right now kind of is. “You want anything? I can call the nurse and get you some breakfast.”

  “I think it’s coming.” She points toward the corridor, where there’s a clattering and voices, and a guy in scrubs and gloves comes in with a tray he settles on her table. Expertly, he gets her into a sitting position and rolls the table over to her. “Thanks,” she says, looking at the very unappealing food. Eggs and fruits and oatmeal. When the orderly leaves, she gives me the oatmeal wordlessly, and I move it out of sight. Another of her quirks is that she hates the texture of oatmeal.

  When I turn back, she’s staring at the rest of the plate with sorrow.

  “I’ll get you whatever you want, sis,” I say. “What sounds good?”

  “Deborah sent soup. I want some more of that. Look in the drawer.”

  “Asher’s mom?” She loves to cook for her family and has always fed everyone in her realm. I learned a lot about cooking from her, and her ability to bring us into her family, make space for us both at the table and away from it, made both of us stronger. I pull open the drawer to find a thermos. “Nice.”

  “Yeah.” She twists off the cup and pours soup into it. I can see a faint steam rise from it. “This is probably what’s making me feel better.”

  “I thought you and Asher weren’t talking or something.”

  She bows her head, then thinks better of it, straightens. “We weren’t, but he came back last night.” Her eyes are vulnerable when she looks at me. “He’s going to work with me on my new game.”

  “I didn’t even know you guys had fallen out,” I say. “It seems so . . . strange, Sam.”

  Her face falls. “Yeah.”

  “But it looks like it’s on the way to healing,” I say, bringing it back to the upbeat. “I’m glad.” I’m eyeing the soup, and it’s nice, but it’s not enough calories for a woman recovering from a serious illness. “What else do you want to eat? Pears? Apples? Popcorn?”

  “Nothing that is hard to chew. My teeth kind of hurt.”

  “Okay. I’m going down to the market to see what I can find.” While I’m out, I’ll call Gloria and find out what’s going on. Make sure she’s still safe. “I’ll text suggestions, so keep your phone handy.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” she says and falls back onto her pillows. Her short hair is mussed and crazy. I should comb it for her.

  Her nurse bustles in. “Look who’s feeling better!” she says.

  I wave at Sam and duck out.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Gloria

  I’m up early to meet with the lawyer, but he calls at six thirty to say he has to cancel and can I come at ten to his office. “Can’t you give me a clue of what I’m dealing with here?”

  “It’s complicated, and I’m sorry, but my daughter had to be rushed to the emergency room this morning with stomach pains. We think she might have appendicitis.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it, “but am I in trouble? Am I going to be arrested? What should I do if the FBI comes back?”

  “Be cooperative, tell the truth if they ask a direct question, but don’t say any more than you have to.”

  I find I’m clenching my jaw and force myself to release it. “All right. I’ll see you at ten.”

  I’ve just had a shower and am sitting down to my usual breakfast of a boiled egg and a slice of toast when Jorge calls up. “There’s a fella here to talk to you, Miss Gloria. Agent Balakrishna. You want to talk to him?”

  The FBI agent. My head buzzes, too bright and loud with fear. Is he here to arrest me? I look around desperately to see if I should put anything away, but Willow has been thorough, bless her.

  I have no choice but to let him in, but first I smooth my blouse, a boatneck linen in turquoise. No jewelry yet, and no makeup, either, but I don’t have time for that now. I do check the bra to see if it will be comfortable if I have to wear it for a while. It’s not an underwire, so it should be all right, and the panties are simple briefs, so also comfortable.

  But they probably make you change into prison underwear, don’t they? I mean, I have no idea. Will I need socks?

  My hands are shaking when I press the intercom button. “Send him up, Jorge.”

  And then I stand there, looking around the magnificence of the foyer with its bars of colored light falling from the stained glass. I look toward the garden and my greenhouse, and my throat is tight as I consider I might not ever see them again.

  The bell startles me so much that I actually jump, and I’m flustered as I open the door to the agent. “Ms. Rose?” he asks. “I’m Agent Balakrishna, from the FBI. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  His ordinariness makes me think of traveling businessmen in their uniforms of golf shirts and slacks, and I find calm in donning my flight attendant persona, a pleasant demeanor hiding whatever I think.

  We don’t shake hands. “How may I help you, Mr. Balakrishna?”

  “May I come in for a moment?” His jaw is so clean that it looks as if it were shaved five or ten minutes ago. His shirt beneath his coat is pressed impeccably. His shoes are shined.

  Not one to miss details.

  I swing the door open, trying to appear composed. “Of course.”

  He steps into the foyer and looks up at the stained glass cupola. “Remarkable. It was cloudy when I was here before. The sun creates its own magnificence, does it not?”

  “Yes.” My stomach is roiling, but I clasp my hands together in front of me, leaving them loosely linked. At ease. It gives me a focus point.

  He takes his time, looking around at the paintings one at a time. “You might have heard the big story in the news about some art that’s been discovered,” he begins, not looking at me, and before I can respond, he adds, “I think you knew the artist, Isaak Margolis, didn’t you?”

  I swallow. This does not seem like a question I can really avoid, so I answer simply. “Yes. I knew him many years ago.”

  He turns to look at me. His eyes are very large, as if to see more than t
he average man. “You were lovers, isn’t that right?”

  I incline my head. “That’s a very personal question, Mr. Balakrishna.”

  “My apologies.” He steps forward to look at an abstract, then around at the walls. “Wasn’t there one of his paintings here, in this alcove?”

  “Yes. We’re about to do some renovations, and we’re cataloging all the works of art.” The lie slips off my tongue without any conscious effort, and then I’m worried that it is a lie, and I smooth my hands over the fronts of my thighs. With as much dignity as I can muster, I say, “I don’t mean to rush you, but my niece is in the hospital, and I’d like to get back to her as soon as possible. Was there something in particular you wanted?”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. Is that the lovely young woman who spoke with me before?”

  I don’t smile, but Willow has that effect on most men. “Not Willow. Her sister.”

  “Very well, I won’t keep you long. I will simply ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.” He coughs lightly. “Would you mind if I had a drink of water?”

  “Of course. Please come with me.” I lead him through the servant hallway to the kitchen and take a glass from the cupboard, a pitcher of filtered water from the fridge. “Ice?”

  “No, no. That’s fine, thank you.”

  I pour the water and wait while he drinks. The kitchen seems almost noisy with silence. Clearly he hasn’t come to arrest me, or he would have done so already. Is the evidence too thin? Is it possible I might escape this whole mess somehow?

  He’s after something. That much is clear.

  At last he sets the empty glass on the counter. “Thank you.” From his pocket, he pulls out a small spiral tablet, and the gesture reminds me so much of Columbo I want to giggle. Is it on purpose?

  Or maybe he’s trying to disarm me, make me think he’s foolish. Which is what Columbo does, after all. Bumbles around so brilliantly that he solves the murder every time.

  I glance at my watch pointedly.

  “How long has it been since you’ve spoken to Mr. Margolis?” he asks.

  “Oh my goodness.” I have to think about the year. Just before Billie died, we had a last, wild rendezvous that broke both of our hearts. “Twenty-five years or more, I’d say.”

  “And have you exchanged letters? Phone calls?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know what he’s been doing all that time?”

  “No,” I say again, simply.

  “Did you know he was forging art when you were lovers?”

  I take a breath. “Of course not.” I frown. “Am I in trouble over this? Should I call my lawyer?”

  “No, not at all. I’m finished.” He tucks the notebook back into the depths of his pocket.

  Relief floods my body, flowing down my spine so fast it makes me feel like I might faint.

  Then he continues, “I wonder, though, if you’d indulge an art lover and show me”—he gestures toward the hallway, where a few paintings can be seen hanging in the gloom—“your collection?”

  Clammy sweat breaks beneath my breasts and hair. How can I protect myself if I don’t know what he’s after? “I don’t really think—”

  “Please, madam. I have studied art my entire life, and rarely have I seen such a beautiful, modern collection. It will only take a moment, surely.”

  Cooperate, the lawyer said, but this is a fishing expedition. Do I allow it?

  If this is chess, he’s moved his rook straight out into the open, and I have no idea what he means to do with it. I am torn between wanting to appear to be cooperative and worrying that he’s looking for some evidence I haven’t hidden. My natural tendency is toward cooperation. “Perhaps just the parlor,” I say. “Come with me.”

  The biggest painting is the iconic one of Billie, of her standing at the window of her music room, smoking. She’s wearing a tank top, and all her tattoos show. The light shines softly on her face, revealing a pensive expression. In the shadowy background is a child playing violin. Willow, all hair and grasshopper limbs. Sam has always hated that she’s not in the frame, and even when it was explained that she lived with her father for that period, it didn’t help. Due to the early betrayals of her parents, she always saw the world as conspiring against her, and this was more evidence.

  But the painting itself is magnificent. The agent is physically halted, and I hear him give a little “oof.”

  “It still can do that to me sometimes,” I say. “Stop me right in my tracks.”

  “Did you know the artist? Karen Shroeder? This is one of her most famous works.”

  “We did know her. She was my sister’s lover, I suspect. Billie seemed to love men and women both.” I gaze at the painting, feeling the loss all over again. Forever, I will miss her. The world knew her as Billie Thorne, wild rocker, but to me she was Billie Rose, the sister I spent my childhood with, the only one who knew my parents and our little room at the top of the house that looked out over fields and hills in the distance. “It’s one of my favorite portraits of her. She actually looks like my sister, not a rock star.”

  He is struggling for composure, but I see he’s gobsmacked. “Billie Thorne is your sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “She was . . .” He stares at the painting, and I see his throat working. Is he going to cry? “I don’t know how I would have gotten through my adolescence without her music.” He gulps. “Especially ‘Write My Name Across the Sky.’”

  I meet people all the time who tell me some version of this, but it is surprising coming from this buttoned-up agent of the law. How, I wonder, did he come to be standing here? It surely wasn’t exactly what he had planned. Mentally, I’m framing a photo of him for my Insta, the black coat, the painfully well-shaved jaw, the fringed eyes. “Did you want to be a musician?” Those are usually the ones who loved that song, not realizing that it’s not just about becoming famous but about longing for things just out of your grasp.

  “No. I’ve always been intrigued by art, not music. The song just . . .” He pauses. “Inspired me. To dream. To try.”

  I nod, but again I wonder if he’s just doing a Columbo on me, talking about my sister so I’ll let down my guard. I look frantically around the room as he circles, looking at every painting. Is there something I’ve missed?

  One by one, he examines the paintings in the room. I stand where I am, feeling my breath growing shorter and shorter in my ears, depriving me of oxygen, the oxygen I need to think. Wildly, I look around, wondering what he’s looking for. All the paintings from Isaak are gone. The place where the Renoir hung holds a ghostly square for its return. He passes it, and I would bet a million dollars that he sees it, but he doesn’t comment. When he has made his rounds, he stops once more in front of Billie’s portrait. I look over his shoulder at the depth of color in her iris, the thing that makes her seem still alive. Samantha has those eyes, that clarity and depth.

  How would all our lives be different if she’d lived?

  I lead him back out.

  “Thank you, Ms. Rose.” Halfway out the door, he pauses. “One more thing—we are investigating all links to this case, and for now, you should not make any plans to leave the city.”

  My stomach drops all the way to the floor, and now I know this game of cat and mouse is going to lead to prison if I don’t figure out how to get out of town. I wonder if my friend Sandro has received my fake passport yet. Tears sting the back of my eyes, but my voice is smooth. “Of course not,” I say. “I’ll be right here.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Willow

  Out on the street, I try to call Gloria, but it goes through to voice mail. “Auntie, I’ve been reading the news about Isaak Margolis, and we really, really need to talk. Call me.”

  I find Sam some sweet custards and cubed watermelon and a spicy, steamy chai from a little grocer down the block. On the way back, I pick up some cheery yellow sunflowers, and my arms are full as I come back into the room.

  “Willow!” Sam
exclaims. “How pretty!”

  The nurse is puttering around the tubes and machines, making notes on a tablet. “Very nice,” she says. “I’ll get a vase for the flowers, and then I want you to get out of here and let her sleep, okay?”

  “But I just got back!”

  She’s a middle-aged woman with a punky haircut touched with the faintest blush of pink. “She can probably get out of here today if you let her sleep before the doctor comes.”

  “Oh! That’s great news.” The rush of relief through my body is acute, a shivery cold sweat that makes me realize I’ve been terrified. “Don’t you think?”

  Sam nods. I arrange the custards with a paper napkin and a plastic fork and the chai, which smells of good ginger and a fine snap of coriander. “This looks great.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say and step back, slapping my hands together. “Now, I guess I’d better get your room ready.”

  “No,” she says without emotion, picking up her fork. “I’m going to my apartment.”

  “Not by yourself,” says the nurse. “You can’t be alone for a few days.”

  Sam rolls her eyes, then winces, touching fingers to her forehead.

  I laugh. “Serves you right. I’ll see you later.”

  By the time I make it back to the apartment, I’m practically asleep on my feet. Yawning, I wait for the elevator, and when it opens, Agent Balakrishna is revealed. His face brightens when he sees me. “Hello again.”

  “Hi.” I’m suddenly wide awake, wondering what he’s doing here this time.

  “You look like her,” he says, holding the door for me.

  “Who?”

  “Your mother.”

  It’s not what I expected. “Um . . . thanks.” The elevator door closes, and the car labors slowly up the six flights. Sweat has broken out down my back, and by the time the doors open on our floor, I’m feeling close to an actual panic attack.

  “Auntie!” I cry when I’m inside the door. “Where are you?”

  No answer. The cats are nowhere in sight, and I dash through the rooms, looking toward G’s bedroom, where the door is standing open. Not there. Not in the parlor or the music room. “Gloria!”