AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD

by Gloria Dank

  “Yes.”

  “Let me ask you something, Mr. Halberstam. You knew your sister. Who would she have accepted pills from, perhaps in a confused state, not realizing how many she had taken?”

  “Sarah always gave her her heart medication,” Roger said slowly.

  “Would she have taken it from anyone else?”

  “I don’t know. Me, of course. Her own brother. Gertie, maybe. Dwayne. I don’t know.”

  The little detective sat and looked at the pair of them, the older man and the younger one, for a long time. “Interesting,” he said at last.

  “What’s so interesting?”

  “That nobody in this family seems to know anything.”

  A few hours later Roger was out in the Folly woods, hunting. He was carrying his Winchester rifle (he had had a funny feeling about it since the day it had been used to kill Bobby, but after all, it was his only gun, and a good one too—it had been damned expensive), and looking around for likely victims among the woodland fauna. So far he had been unsuccessful. The truth was that in hunting, as in most things except television watching, Roger was pretty much a failure. He rarely shot at anything, preferring instead to tramp for hours through the woods; and when he did shoot, more often than not he missed. He had bagged very little game for years now. He had tried to teach Dwayne when the boy was young, and Dwayne had picked it up much more easily than he had. So, for that matter, had Irma, who used to enjoy shooting of an afternoon. Nearly everybody shot better than he did, he reflected. But never mind. He enjoyed himself. He supposed Gertie would call what he was doing a “nature walk,” but he preferred to call it hunting. Sounded better; more manly, more virile. He strode through the trees, his gun over his shoulder, his eyes alert for game. Really, there was very little difference between what Gertie did and what he did, he mused, in a surprisingly philosophical mood; except that when she saw a small woodland animal, she tried to catalog it, and when he saw one, he tried to shoot it. Basically very little difference.

  He tramped the woods happily for several hours, until the afternoon shadows grew long. These short days, he thought irritably, and turned back toward home. His route took him through the heart of the Folly woods, to hit the road leading back to town. He had driven halfway up the road and left his old Jeep there, parked on the side. He was not worried about its being stolen; nothing had ever been stolen in Lyle except for Charlotte Grunwald’s handbag, years ago in Harry’s Market when she foolishly left it lying on top of the apples while she was fingering the string beans. Everybody believed that it was old Mrs. Hickok, who lived on the edge of town and was widely thought to be a witch, who had taken the handbag, less for the money or credit cards than for the sheer satisfaction of spiting poor Charlotte, who had incurred her enmity over some small matter obscured by time. Charlotte had always insisted that it was Mrs. Hickok who filched the handbag, but there was no proof, besides the fact that she had been one of the customers at Harry’s at that time, and that she had been seen hurrying down the road toward her little cottage with a gleeful expression on her face. People whispered that she used such articles—clothing, wallets, whatever she could lay her hands on—to put a curse on the unfortunate owner; but there was no proof of that, either. Charlotte had started complaining shortly afterward of pains in her hip, but Roger was sure it was all imaginary. Charlotte always had been a bit of a whiner, perhaps because her sister always demanded—and received—all of the attention. His thoughts drifted off into speculations on how old the Grunwald sisters actually were; they had never revealed their ages, and village speculation ran from their early sixties into their early seventies, with one denizen of Lyle insisting she had it on excellent authority that Alicia was pushing eighty. Roger doubted that. She did not seem that old to him …

  Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a large shape standing immobile in the shadow of the trees. He peered curiously. Surely there was something there … perhaps an animal, trying to hide from him before it bolted? Feeling a sudden shiver of excitement, he hefted his rifle to his shoulder and paced slowly forward.

  Yes, there was definitely something there. A large shape hovering behind a boulder; it was difficult to make out exactly what it was, although it did not really look much like a deer …

  Roger was ten yards away, his face dappled with sunlight, his eyes bulging with the excitement of the kill, when all at once he put his rifle down. He stared and stared.

  “Oh, dear Jesus God,” he said.

  He picked his way slowly through the underbrush until he came to the small clearing where Gertie was sitting, immobile, on a boulder. He did not have to look closely to know she was dead. He, like Gertie, had seen death before, in the shape of small rabbits and squirrels and birds, shot down or found breathing their last on the woodland floor. She sat slumped to one side, her head resting on one out-flung arm, leaning against one of the trees she had loved so much.

  “Oh, dear Jesus God,” said Roger again, in helpless despair. He could not think of what to do. He sat down on a nearby rock and began to sob. This seemed a natural continuation of his mourning for his sister: first Irma, and now Gertie. He did not know what had killed her, but he was sure it was her heart. It had been bad for years. She had sat down to rest, and it had simply given out, thundering to a halt like a regiment of cavalry.

  Gertie sat silently watching him from behind her dead eyes while Roger snuffled and blubbered, wiping his streaming nose on his navy blue flannel shirt. It was too much, he thought, too much, all in such a short time. There was no one to see him except Gertie and the trees, with perhaps a curious squirrel or two, so he let go and gave vent to his feelings. The afternoon shadows grew longer, deepening to violet and black. Finally, he wiped his streaming red face and stood up. Time to go, he thought. Time to go and find somebody to look after poor Gertie.

  He saluted her solemnly, lifting his red-checked hunting cap. He had never liked her much, but she had been family, and he had known her for thirty years, since his sister married Hugo. Family. Half his family was gone already, for Christ’s sake. Gone. He realized with bitter shock that he was the only one left of his generation. First Hugo, then Irma … and now Gertie.

  He stood for a moment in the clearing, lifting his cap in a tender salute. “Good-bye, Gertie,” he said out loud, to the trees. Then he turned and, finding his gun on the ground, picked it up and walked rapidly away through the darkness.

  9

  Gertie’s funeral was a much more solemn affair than Irma’s had been. One death in the family had been vaguely enjoyable to their friends and neighbors, especially with the possible overtones of foul play. Two deaths were widely considered to be in bad taste. This, combined with the family’s association with Bobby’s death, made the whole thing a bit too much, it was felt. The villagers attended dutifully, but their faces were blank and their voices were muted.

  Bernard felt personally insulted by Gertie’s death. He had a horror of death, fueled by his childhood images of his great-aunt swinging mistily up and down the stairs; yet somehow his life seemed to have become, as he remarked bitterly, a recurring carnival of funerals.

  “Was it natural?” he had asked Snooky when his brother-in-law had come home a few days before, oppressed by the news.

  “Natural? Yes, I think so. The doctor said it was a heart attack. She had been failing for a long time—it turns out everybody knew that—but she hated doctors. She never thought there was anything really wrong with her.”

  “No slow-acting poison, or an overdose of digitalis, or anything like that? Anything to tie it in with Irma’s death?”

  “No. Not that I know of, Bernard. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

  “Somebody could have wanted the house.”

  Snooky had sat down wearily and rubbed his head, which always ached these days. “I don’t know. Not that much. Not enough to murder poor old Gertie. Everyone else in the family has enough money of their own now.”

  “But the Folly is valuable,
isn’t it? Who gets it now?”

  “I don’t know. They’re going to search Gertie’s room for a will. They’re not even sure she made one. It would be like her not to think of it.”

  Bernard nodded.

  Now he stood silently watching as the massive black casket was lowered into the grave on the other side of Hugo’s. Gertie had reserved a space for herself by her brother. Irma on one side, and Gertie on the other—the two women who had loved him. The minister spoke a few short words, but even he seemed disoriented by this sudden demand on his services.

  Roger, to his own surprise, did not cry during the funeral. He supposed it was because he had been drained dry by his outburst in the clearing. He stood dully watching through bloated eyes as Gertie’s casket was lowered into the grave. Who was left? he wondered. Who was left? Just Dwayne and Sarah, his stepson and his niece. Nobody from the old days. Nobody who remembered the past.

  He felt suddenly very much alone.

  Dwayne, at his side, listened to the service stoically. He felt sorry for poor old Gertie—it was too bad, after all, that somebody who had enjoyed life so much should have been taken away like that, struck down in what could have been her prime—but he had other, more important things to worry about. Dwayne had the kind of mind that could, by and large, block out disturbing events, such as the sudden deaths of two members of his family. For the past few days his mind had been occupied with a new kind of light meter that he had seen advertised in one of his photography journals, a special kind from Japan (of course, mostly everything was made in Japan these days), and he was thinking about ordering one from New York. It was ridiculously expensive, of course, but that didn’t matter anymore. He could afford to indulge himself. His thoughts drifted away on this happy note, a clear blue spot in the middle of the dreary winter day. And perhaps he would get that new tripod as well. Yes, what an excellent idea. He could use a new one. His old tripod had a tendency to dip to one side, then curtsey gently to the ground. It made it difficult to take still pictures if the tripod wasn’t still. Yes, he would get that new tripod, and the light meter, and maybe that background screen he had seen in the newest issue that had arrived yesterday …

  Sarah, next to Dwayne, was saying a silent farewell to Gertie. She had liked Gertie, who had always been kind to her, despite the lack of any blood relationship. She was merely her sister-in-law’s niece, yet Gertie had always treated her like family, welcoming her back gruffly when Sarah returned from college and took up residence in the Folly. Irma and Gertie had raised her after her parents died. Now both of them were dead. She felt tears welling in her eyes. Who was left? Just Roger and Dwayne. She looked at what remained of her family critically. She had never felt very close to either of them. She disapproved of their lackadaisical lifestyles. And now Dwayne was talking about making a living doing his photography full time! She shook her head mentally. It was lucky he wouldn’t ever have to support himself. Her thoughts, like Dwayne’s, drifted slowly away from the funeral service, rising and mixing with the clouds in the impassive gray sky. That was a very generous will that Aunt Irma had made … she wondered who Gertie had left the Folly to … maybe one of her many conservation societies that she corresponded with so enthusiastically by mail. It was time for Sarah to move on as well. She’d stay here until the fall, then go to whatever law school accepted her. Let Roger and Dwayne spend the rest of their lives here; she had better things to do. Unlike them, she had ambitions, and the fantastically lucky stroke of being suddenly wealthy hadn’t changed that at all …

  The minister was talking about Gertie’s love of the outdoors and compassion for all living things. All the villagers were nodding sagely, even those who during her lifetime had thought Gertie was half-cracked and a bloody nuisance, roaming the woods like that every day. Afterward, the congregation thronged around the family, murmuring their condolences, a stream of earnest sympathy. The Grunwald sisters lingered for a moment, Charlotte with her hand timorously placed on Roger’s arm, as if to reassure herself that he was still among the living.

  At last the family was left standing alone on the hilltop, with the lowering clouds all about, reaching down in tendrils of mist toward the rocky ground. Maya and Bernard said a muted farewell. Snooky wanted to go with Sarah back to the house, but she refused.

  “No, Snooky. I need to be alone with Roger and Dwayne now.”

  “All right. I understand. I’ll call you later.”

  He stood on the hillside and watched as the three forlorn figures straggled slowly down the hill in the direction of the Folly.

  Bernard came home, sat down in front of the fireplace and announced to no one in particular, “I hate funerals.” He took off his jacket and tossed it aside, then tore savagely at his tie, which he had knotted uncomfortably tight.

  “That’s no surprise,” said Snooky. “You hate weddings, too. And parties. You hate anything that involves more than one other person.”

  “I hate staying here with you.”

  Snooky was not miffed. “A troglodyte,” he said pleasantly, taking off his own jacket and laying it on top of Bernard’s. “That’s what you are, you know. A troglodyte. A primitive cave dweller. An antisocial recluse. You would have been perfectly happy in the days before fire. Living in a cave with a few other people, going out to hunt for food, coming back at night, speaking in monosyllabic grunts, occasionally waging war with cave dwellers from other caves. That life would have suited you perfectly.”

  “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 a
t 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.