AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD

by Gloria Dank

  “Have you seen Bernard’s face?” Maya asked her brother the next evening. “I think he just died.”

  Snooky was scraping the beef stew into a casserole dish. He arranged boiled quartered red potatoes and carrots carefully around the outside, sprinkled them with paprika and put some sprigs of parsley on top. “I know. And the evening’s barely begun.”

  “He’ll be all right.”

  “I put him next to Sarah. He seemed to enjoy talking to her last time.”

  “I don’t think the problem is Sarah,” said Maya, peeking out the kitchen door. “I think it’s that new guy—Roger. Roger Halberstam. Bernard met him in the woods the other day and said he was strange.”

  “Well, he is strange.”

  “He sat down on the other side of Bernard before I could stop him.”

  “It’s good for him,” Snooky said cheerfully. “Here, Maya. Take in this dish of vegetables while I carry in the stew. You know I’ve always told you Bernard should get out and mix a little more. You know, mellow his character a bit.”

  “Bernard doesn’t need to be mellowed, Snooky. He’s fine the way he is.”

  “Yes, well, there are conflicting opinions on that. Here are the vegetables. We’ll come back for the pumpkin dish.”

  At the table, Roger Halberstam, his large meaty features aglow, was talking about a rabbit he had killed the previous day. “Skinny little feller,” he was saying, gesturing with his hands. “Not much fat on him. Fast, though. Faster than I expected. He scurried off into the bushes before I got my gun up. But I waited, and he came out again. That’s when I blew his head off. Rabbits are fast,” he concluded thoughtfully, “but they’re not very smart.”

  There was a silence around the table.

  “Charming little story,” said Bobby Fuller finally, lifting up his wineglass. “Thank you for that interesting piece of natural history.”

  “Roger, I wish you wouldn’t talk about your hunting at the dinner table,” Irma said fretfully. She was wearing a stylishly designed red velvet dress tonight, a dress whose sleek lines made her look older, not younger. She wore an expensive strand of milk-white pearls and matching pearl earrings. Once again she had too much makeup on, her lips a shade too red, her eyes outlined in dusky brown. She sat next to Bobby, her gaze wandering protectively over him. “You know how it upsets everybody.”

  “Don’t see why,” responded her brother. “Don’t see why.”

  “Please, Roger.”

  “All right, Irmie.”

  At the other end of the table, the huge fat woman whom Bernard recalled vaguely as Gertie Ditmar gave a loud snort. She was dressed tonight in shapeless tweeds and large, obviously artificial pearls. “Hunters have no respect for the environment.”

  “That’s not true,” replied Roger. “We have a great deal of respect for the environment. Do you know how many deer would die of starvation if they weren’t hunted anyway?”

  “Oh, shut up, Roger. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You have no—no respect for living things.”

  “Hmmmppphh,” said Roger. He and Gertie glared at each other for a moment. Then he lifted the serving bowl filled with stew and said, “Hey, this looks great. Look at this. What’s everybody else going to eat, ha ha ha?”

  Across the table, Dwayne winced.

  Next to Bernard, Sarah put a soft hand on his. She said in a low voice, “Don’t let Uncle Roger get to you. He does the gruff English squire bit, but he’s different from that underneath, he really is. He’s been a wonderful father to Dwayne ever since Dwayne’s mother died. And Dwayne’s not even his own son.”

  Bernard silently helped himself to the stew.

  “Dwayne told me you wrote a bestseller about nuclear power plants,” Sarah said. She smiled, a dimple showing briefly. “That’s a lie, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve never written about power plants?”

  “No.”

  “You are mean. He’s been telling everybody. He loved the thought of meeting a bestselling author.”

  Bernard shrugged.

  Sarah tilted her head to one side, looking at him. She was wearing a simple black wool dress with a red belt. Her hair was drawn back smoothly and gathered at the nape of her neck, and she wore tiny diamond earrings that sparkled with brilliant colors in the candlelight. Snooky flopped down next to her. “How’s the food?” he asked.

  “Delicious.”

  “Liar. You haven’t even tried it yet. Bernard has been keeping you too busy with his witty repartee. Haven’t you, Bernard?”

  Bernard picked up his fork and began to eat.

  “You see?” said Snooky.

  At first, everyone around the table had a communal conversation; but soon, under the influence of food and wine, the talk broke up into pairs and trios, leaving Bernard isolated in a conversational vacuum. He was perfectly content. He busied himself with a third and fourth helping of the stew and the pumpkin dish. He kept the butter plate conveniently nearby, for the excellent French bread that Snooky was passing around, and studiously avoided any attempts on the part of his dinner companions to engage him in conversation. As the dinner progressed, he rose out of his preoccupation with the meal and began to notice an undercurrent of—could it be hostility or unease?—around the table. Irma was being, as before, overly affectionate with her young paramour, and it was drawing unfavorable glances and critical whispers. Everything Bobby said was brilliant; she hung on his every word; he knew best about everything. Bernard, watching the unlikely pair, thought that she appeared to be genuinely in love with him. What the young man felt was, of course, another matter. He seemed to be a little more withdrawn tonight than at lunch the other day; but perhaps he was simply more aware than she was of the amused, contemptuous looks they were receiving.

  Bernard went back to his dinner with an inward shrug of indifference. It didn’t matter to him what Irma Ditmar decided to do with her life and her money. If she wanted to make a fool of herself over a younger man, that was her business. And perhaps Bobby liked her for more than just her wealth. There was no telling. He glanced covertly sideways at his brother-in-law. Snooky was, unlike the others, paying no attention to Irma’s fussing and demonstrations of affection. He was clearing the dishes and chattering to Maya, but there was a thoughtful, inward look on his face.

  “Poor Aunt Irma,” Sarah said in a half-whisper at Bernard’s side. She was buttering her bread with short, angry gestures. “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Irma’s always been foolish over younger men, ever since Hugo died. But this one is more serious than the others.”

  “If it makes her happy, who cares?”

  “Well, there’s a bit more to it than that—” Sarah started to say, when Snooky emerged from the kitchen with a steaming deep dish apple pie. “Look at that!” she said in admiration.

  Bernard was already looking.

  “This dessert is at Bernard’s request,” Snooky said. “Apple walnut pie with a crumb topping. Here’s the cream.” He served huge slices slathered in heavy cream and topped with chopped walnuts. There were oohs and aahs around the table.

  Roger Halberstam looked as if he had died and gone to heaven. “Delicious,” he said between forkfuls. “Absolutely delicious.”

  Gertie, at the end of the table, was already gesturing for more and talking to Bobby in a loud voice. “I was out in the woods the other day,” she was saying, “and I saw a black squirrel. I didn’t know there were any this far north. A black squirrel, I’m telling you. A delightful little creature. You should spend more time in the woods, Bobby,” she said severely. “You’re so pale. It would be good for you.”

  “I don’t get much time off, Gertie. You know that.”

  “Ah, yes, that law firm you work in. Slave drivers. Anyway, as I was saying …”

  “You’re a lawyer?” Maya asked.

  “A law clerk, I’m afraid,” Bobby said. “A paralegal. We work just as hard but don’t make as much money.”

 
“I see.”

  “That’s how we met,” Irma chirped up, her cheeks a bright pink. “Bobby works for my lawyer, Mr. Estes of Estes, Wolf and Harrison. Don’t you, dear?”

  “I certainly do.”

  “What’s he like, Bobby?” asked Dwayne.

  “As Gertie says. A slave driver.”

  Irma began to fuss. “I know, poor dear. I’ve spoken to him about it several times, but it never seems to make any difference. I think he works you far too hard.”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter, Irma.”

  “Yes, it does. It does, Bobby. It matters to me. I hate to see you all pale and wan-looking, like Gertie said. You should get out more.”

  “I get out plenty.”

  “No, you don’t, poor dear.” Irma subsided into chirps of birdlike pleasure as Snooky handed her a plate of pie and cream. “Oh, my. This is lovely. Thank you so much. Where did your brother learn to cook like this, Maya?”

  Maya was disemboweling her pie and looking at it critically. “I have no idea. Nobody ever taught him. It’s just one of his little gifts. He’s gifted in the most unexpected ways, most of them not terribly useful. What are these, Snooky? Currants?”

  “Yes, My. They had some in the store, so I threw them in.”

  “I can taste the cider,” Bernard pronounced gloomily.

  Snooky served out the coffee in large French cups with a delicate floral pattern. “Nice cups, aren’t these? I found them in the back of the cupboard. I’m probably not supposed to be using them. Cream or sugar?”

  Once everyone had their coffee, and the first slices of pie had disappeared, Irma rose slowly from the table, supporting herself on Bobby’s shoulder. She lifted up her half-empty wineglass. “Listen, everyone,” she said tremulously. “Please listen. I have the most wonderful announcement to make.”

  The conversation, which had been running in subdued rivulets around the table, was immediately stilled.

  Irma gripped Bobby’s shoulder tightly, and her cheeks turned an unhealthy shade of red. Under the heavy makeup, she actually seemed to be blushing.

  “Bobby and I …” She faltered, her voice quivering. “Bobby and I … oh, dear … well, we’ve decided to get married!”

  There was a moment of dead silence. Then everyone began to talk at once. Sarah went around and kissed her aunt. Dwayne shook Bobby’s hand heartily. Gertie looked vastly amused and kept on eating her dessert as if nothing at all had happened.

  Roger stood up and threw his arms around his sister. “Why, Irmie, you old fox! How long have you been planning this? My God, Bobby, you’re a lucky guy!” He shook Bobby’s hand. “When’s the date? Have the two of you set a date?”

  “Wait till the spring,” said Gertie. “There’s nothing like a spring wedding.”

  “Oh, dear … oh, no … I don’t know,” twittered Irma. “We haven’t even discussed it yet.”

  “Well, you’ll have to stop keeping all these secrets and let us in on your plans,” Roger said. “Hey? Do you hear what I’m saying, Irmie?”

  “Of course, Roger.”

  “So happy for you both,” said Roger heartily. He wrung Bobby’s hand again and sat down. But Bernard, next to him, noticed that as he picked up his napkin and spread it carefully over his lap, his hands were shaking.

  “Why did she have to pick my dinner party to make that announcement?” mourned Snooky. He and Maya were clearing the table later that evening. Everyone had left half an hour before, in a flurry of thanks and slightly inebriated good-byes.

  “I noticed how happy the whole family was.”

  “It ruined everything. It ruined everything, Maya. I had the whole evening planned so carefully. We were going to sit in front of the fire and tell stories. It was all going so well, wasn’t it? And then she springs that announcement. Oh, damn.”

  “Forgive me for asking,” said Bernard from his seat by the fire, “but what business is it of her family’s if she decides to remarry?”

  “It’s something you wouldn’t understand, Bernard. It’s a worldly concern. Something that someone like you wouldn’t comprehend. It has to do with money.”

  “What about money?”

  “Irma is rich, Bernard. Rich beyond your wildest dreams. Her husband left her everything except for a half-share of the house, which he gave to his sister Gertie. But Gertie didn’t get any money, just a life interest in the house. And nobody else got anything at all. They’re all dependent on Irma in one way or another. Roger thought he was an entrepreneur, like Hugo, but all his businesses failed one after another. Sarah said it was pathetic, how he would come to Irma and Hugo—and now just Irma—with his hat in his hand, asking for money. Anyway, how do you think they would all feel if Irma marries again and leaves her fortune to Bobby? They’re only human, Bernard. They’ve got to be disappointed.” Snooky balanced three plates on top of each other with an angry clatter.

  Bernard had lost interest long ago. He sat gazing happily into the fire.

  “He’s not listening to me. He never does listen to me. I could yell ‘Fire!’ and he wouldn’t hear,” Snooky told his sister.

  “Don’t take it personally, Snooks. You know better than that. It’s the way he is.”

  “Will you help me with the dishes, My?”

  “Sure.”

  They went into the kitchen, leaving Bernard far away in his reveries.

  A few days later Bernard and Misty were tracing their usual path among the trees. It was a bitterly cold day. Their breath billowed like white clouds before their faces. It had snowed heavily the night before, and their tracks fled away behind them, stretching back as a tangible link to the cabin. Bernard was not in a good mood. He had begun to suspect that he was putting on weight. Not much, of course—he never did gain much—but enough. Maya, after breakfast that morning, had glanced at his waistline critically. “Sweetheart, maybe you’d better take the dog for a walk.” Snooky had agreed. “Yes, Bernard, why don’t you take Misty out today? It would do you good.” Bernard had protested furiously, but to no avail. Here he was, trudging along, bundled up in his down coat against the frigid cold.

  Misty seemed delighted, as always, to be outdoors. The cold did not seem to bother her. She bounded along, sniffing eagerly at invisible objects. Bernard followed behind, a dark glowering bundle of heavy clothes and scarves. The cold usually did not bother him either—he went outdoors in the winter with just a light coat on—but this did not qualify as merely “cold.” It was, he decided as he walked along, arctic hell. He had had to break the ice in the sink this morning. It was more than time enough to be heading home. Surely they had put in enough time in Snooky’s cabin. His thoughts lingered luxuriously on central heating.

  Misty gave a peculiar little yelp and strained forward at the end of the leash. Bernard pulled her back irritably. She ran around in circles, winding herself neatly around a bush, then disappeared. Bernard cursed and followed her.

  “What is it, Misty? Misty? Come back here, you … what is it?”

  When he finally found her, she was sniffing at something half-hidden under the bush.

  “What is it?” he asked irritably. It was a large dark object. Visions of half-dead animals, of hunters and deer, of Roger Halberstam’s unfortunate rabbit, floated through his mind. He began to unwind the leash from the bush.

  “What is it, Misty? Come here right now.”

  Misty, like most faithful dogs, paid no attention to what he was saying. She whined and surged forward on the leash.

  “Oh, all right,” said Bernard in disgust. He followed her around the back of the bush. There was something on the ground there, half-buried in the ice and snow … was it an animal? Bernard shut his eyes, shuddered, then leaned forward to look.

  “We’re going to have to put him on a diet,” Snooky was saying at that very moment. He and Maya sat on opposite couches, their legs stretched out toward the fire, steaming cups of cider next to them. “A diet, Maya. There’s no other way. He’s getting really hefty.”

>   “Bernard always gains weight in the winter. He’s like a bear.”

  “Or a squirrel.”

  “Whatever. He loses it naturally in the spring. Bernard is very much in tune with the seasons.” Maya sipped her drink. “You know, Snooky, Bernard is right. This stuff could make you sick. It’s gone off already.”

  “Not yet, Maya. Not yet. And it’s almost finished, you know. Do you realize by the time you leave we’ll have used up twenty gallons?”

  “What on earth possessed you to rush out and buy twenty gallons?”

  “I don’t know, My. I had just arrived here, and I lost my head. I thought it was the most delicious thing I had ever tasted in my life. It’s fresh from the orchards.”

  “Well, all I can say is that you’ve turned me off the stuff forever. When we get back to Connecticut, I hope I never see a drop of it again.” Maya looked up as the door opened and her husband came in. “Oh, there you are, sweetheart. How was your walk?”

  “We were just talking about you, Bernard. We were just saying that it’s time you went on a little—”

  “Wait a minute,” said Maya. Bernard had taken off his big bulky hat and she had seen his face. “Sweetheart? What’s wrong?”

  Bernard headed for the nearest chair, Misty trailing behind him, and sat down heavily.

  “I have seen something bad,” he said.

  Maya reached over and took his hand. “What is it?”

  “Somebody has to call the police,” Bernard said. “Bobby Fuller has been shot to death in the woods.”

  3

  Detective Larry Bentley of the Wolfingham police force was, Bernard reflected, not so much big as just plain mean. He was very short but very wide, and he somehow conveyed an impression of toughness and durability, like rawhide. He had a square face with piggy features and small squinty eyes. His dark thinning hair was combed carefully over a bald spot in back. He was not someone whom Bernard would ordinarily invite as a house guest, and he wished very fervently that Detective Bentley was not sitting in the living room of the cabin right now.