Prodigy

by Charles Atkins

“I don’t want to watch.”

  Maylene’s looking at Jimmy, her eyes much too big as blood vessels burst inside the whites. She loves him, even as her life slips away, he knows that she loves him.

  If he could bite Father’s big hands, but he can’t move. He strains against the leather belts that hold him captive in the wooden chair. There’s nothing he can do but watch.

  “He’s killing her!”

  “Tell me what he’s making you watch,” Barrett urged, feeling something evil and dangerous in the room.

  “He’s killing Maylene.”

  “She was your nanny?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me what he’s doing in the basement.”

  “He’s singing …”

  “The hip bone’s connected to the leg bone, the leg bone’s connected to the ankle bone,” Father laughs as he checks for a pulse. He waltzes across the cellar floor, dragging Maylene’s limp body. Her other shoe falls off and her knee-high nylons snag and run. Giant shadows cast by the flaming furnace create phantom couples dancing on the walls.

  “Tell me what you see,” Barrett pleaded.

  “The smell is horrible.”

  Feces stain the back of Maylene’s dress and golden pearls of urine cling to her torn and bunched up nylons. He lays her down on a rubber mat, and raises her head so that her dead and bulged-out eyes stare back at Jimmy. “You’re getting too old for a nanny, Jimbo,” Father says, as he nods Maylene’s lifeless head up and down, as though she’s agreeing with his assessment. Father lifts up her thin flower-print skirt and pulls out a butcher cleaver. He raises it overhead and brings it down right below her knee, hacking through the bone and flesh.

  Jimmy shrieked and jumped in his chair. “There’s blood on the floor and there’s sparks coming out of the furnace. It’s so hot. He’s throwing her into the furnace.”

  Father’s white shirt is soaked in blood and perspiration. He takes it off, wipes his face and tosses it into the furnace. All that remains of Maylene is her head. “And the neck bone’s connected to the …” Father swings it up by the hair and dangles it inches in front of Jimmy’s face. Even in death he can see the love in her eyes. “Give her a kiss, Jimbo … And here’s the word of the lord.” Her flesh is still warm as Father mashes the dead woman’s lips to his son’s. “Say goodbye ”… and Father backs away, still dangling the blood-dripping head in front of Jimmy. He swings it back and forth, back and forth, and then tosses it into the sizzling fire.

  “It’s so hot.” Jimmy sobbed, like a child. “It’s too hot.” He wept and coughed, his throat filled with the choking smells of burning flesh and heating fuel.

  “It’s okay, Jimmy,” Barrett soothed, “I need you to leave the basement and go someplace happy.”

  He blinked and stared at her, a sneer crept across his lips. “She had such soft skin, like yours …”

  “What is it you want?” she asked, sensing a grim shift in him.

  His lips curled back, revealing two rows of perfect white teeth, “You’ll find out.”

  “What happened to the little boy?”

  Jimmy started to sing, “The breast bone’s connected to the neck bone. The neck bone’s connected to the … Wheee! Everyone into the pool!”

  The clock chimed, and as it did Barrett knew that she had not gotten what she needed. Jimmy was a good hypnotic subject, but there was still a degree of free will, along with whatever odd configuration of personalities moved inside of him that weren’t giving up the goods. She made a final stab, “Tell me what you did to Dr. Kravitz.”

  He blinked again, looked at Barrett and then at the clock, “Why nothing, Dr. Conyors. Why would you ask? And look, our time is up. Now aren’t you supposed to tell me that you’ll clap your hands and I’ll wake, feeling fresh as a spring morning?”

  “That doesn’t appear necessary.”

  “No,” he agreed. “I never touched Dr. Kravitz.”

  “You never touched Nicole Foster,” she added. “You didn’t have to because someone else did it for you.”

  “So you say.” He leaned forward, sniffing the air as though he might capture her scent. “Such a lovely brooch,” he commented. “A present from Detective Hobbs, no doubt.”

  Barrett recoiled, realizing that Jimmy knew she was wired, that he’d known the entire time.

  Mimicking his little-boy voice, he chanted. “Maylene … Maylene.”

  “Who’s helping you, Jimmy?” she persisted.

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at. There’s just me and millions and millions of dollars. Did you ever wonder what it might be like to have all that money? It’s amazing how many people fantasize about having what I have. Do you wonder about that, Dr. Conyors? Do you wonder what will happen to all that money when I’m gone? You can see that Ellen isn’t about to pop out a kid. Even if she wanted, the Martin women go through the change early; it’s too late for Chicky. We have no heir … not yet…of course, there is Fred. Where is that cat? I think he’d … I’d make an interesting father, don’t you think? That’s what we should focus on, finding me a bride. Then we could get to work on James Cyrus Martin, the Fifth. It has a certain ring, maybe twins or triplets; it’s good to have playmates, a spare or two to keep things jumping. But we really must do something about strengthening the blood. Far too much inbreeding.”

  Torn between wanting to get the hell out, and needing something, her eyes fell on a stack of envelopes next to Jimmy’s chair.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, following her gaze. “I need to give you yours.” He handed her the fine linen envelope.

  Not understanding, she opened it, and stared at the engraved invitation.

  James Cyrus Martin, IV

  invites you to an evening of romance and music.

  Place: Carnegie Hall/Weill Recital Hall

  Time: 8:00 p.m.

  Date: Saturday, May 1

  Cello: James Cyrus Martin, IV

  Piano: To be announced

  “What is this?” she asked. “This is two days from now. Who gave you permission?”

  “Ellen spoke to the board; they thought it was a good idea.”

  Barrett found it hard to breathe, why hadn’t anyone told her, and what the hell was Ellen doing going behind her back? And why did the invitation remind her of the ones that she and Ralph had sent out for their wedding?

  A hard knock came at the library doors.

  Barrett startled and turned her head.

  “You seem jumpy, Dr. Conyors. I hope it’s nothing I said. That’s just your detective,” Jimmy commented getting to his feet. “But he’s not invited … You know, I do feel refreshed.” Halfway to the door he stopped and turned, “But I don’t think you got what you came for today … pity. Maybe next time you’ll do better … or maybe I will.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Jimmy watched as the door shut on Detective Hobbs and Barrett Conyors. His temples pounded and saliva flooded his mouth. He heard them on the other side, their voices lowered. His stomach ached and the image of Maylene’s bleeding head swinging from father’s hand still burned in his mind.

  He peered through the peephole. She was flirting with Hobbs, he could see it in her hand as it whipped back through her short hair and in the way she tilted her chin on that wonderfully long neck. “The head bone’s connected to the neck bone,” Father sang.

  The bloody cleaver high in the air, catching the reflection of the orange flames and then it comes down, chop, chop, chop—three times. “Too old for nannies.”

  Jimmy blinked, struggling for control. Father was itching to come up, and then there were all the others, some with names and others who swam about in the soup of his insides, constantly reliving their bits and pieces of his past. And it appeared that Dr. Conyors knew this; why else would she have used hypnosis, or brought up why his medications didn’t work? She knew.

  “She wants to trick you, Jimbo,” Father cackled.

  “No, but at least she sees me for who I am, and not some schizophre
nic.”

  “She’ll send you back, Jimbo. And where’s the fun in that?”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he headed back into the library and picked up his cello.

  Father continued to prattle as Jimmy tried to focus on the music. It was an easy Debussy, but his fingers seemed fat and slow and he couldn’t control the lithium tremor. His intonation soured and jarred in his ear. The longer he played, the worse it got, missing notes by a blackboard-screeching eighth tone, and losing the delicacy of the passages with fingers robbed of their usual dexterity.

  And Father wouldn’t shut up, “It was a happy day, wasn’t it?” father prattled. “So many good things all at once. It was your eighth birthday.” He sang, “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you …”

  “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Jimmy. Happy birthday to you.” Father was drunk and drinking more while Jimmy and Ellen played duets in the library. Usually they’d run upstairs when they heard him come in, but this time they were too caught up in the back-and-forth fun of the Beethoven duos.

  Jimmy smells whiskey and knows that tonight he’ll get a visit from Father. His stomach churns and he hears Ellen pull the keyboard closed on the Bösendorfer. He wants to hide, but knows that only makes things worse.

  “Come on Jimmy,” Ellen says, pretending that everything is fine. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  “Yes, little doves,” Father teases, “fly away, fly away. But I do have a present for Jimbo.”

  Jimmy looks at Ellen, she shrugs her shoulders and shakes her head. There’s no escape. Father disappears and there’s a clanging of doors and distant footsteps clomping down into the basement and the cellar below that. And then the steps reverse and with them come an inconsistent thumping, as though some hobbled creature is rising up from the bowels of the earth. The kitchen door closes and Father sings, his squeaky voice rattling through the walls, “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you …”

  Jimmy sees the black wooden case first, it’s covered with colored stickers and custom’s stamps, some in English some in other languages from places like La Scala, The Tchaikovsky Festival, and the London Philharmonic. Father places the cello case in the center of the Sarouk. “Want to see?” he asks.

  Jimmy nods, and cautiously approaches.

  Father’s fingers work at the case’s snaps, clicking them open one by one.

  Jimmy feels a hand on his shoulder as Ellen stands beside him. There’s no present for her, on this their shared birthday, just the black cello case for Jimmy.

  Father opens the case and in the soft evening light Jimmy sees Allegra. Her dark body lies nestled in a bed of black velvet with two securing bands strapped across her graceful curves.

  “She’s over three hundred years old,” Father says, taking out one of the two ivory-tipped bows and handing it to Jimmy. “I thought you’d like her.”

  Jimmy walks up to the cello, not even caring that Father is so close. His hand reaches out and strokes the gleaming surface.

  Father smiles and shakes his head, “It’s okay, she’s yours. Take her out.”

  Reverentially Jimmy liberates the Amati from its cradle. He pulls out the endpin and holding it by the gracefully scrolled neck he turns the instrument in the light. It feels light, and makes his own instrument seem clumsy.

  “They say he crushed rubies and diamonds and mixed them into the varnish,” Father says. “There were big secrets as to what went into the varnish, it was all about blood, and magic and sex. She’s been owned by some of the world’s greatest cellists, son—her name is Allegra— and now she’s yours.”

  Jimmy carries his prize back to his chair and plucks the A string. It was in perfect pitch. Running a bow across the strings, the room fills with Allegra’s warm throaty song.

  Ellen walks back to the piano and lays into the opening runs of the Chopin. The music flows, as he and Ellen fill the room with glorious sound, shutting out the world in a blissful sea.

  They play straight through. He forgets that father is in the room, until a harsh clap reminds him.

  “You like the cello, Jimbo?” Father asks.

  Jimmy fears a trick; there’s always a trick. “Yes,” he answers, hoping that Father wouldn’t rip Allegra from his hands.

  “I’m glad, I have another gift for you,” he says.

  “What is it?” Jimmy asks.

  Father smiles, “It’s a surprise. You’ll have to come with me; it’s in the basement.”

  Ellen slides off the piano bench and stands at her brother’s side.

  “Not you, Chicky,” Father says. “This is for, Jimbo. Because today he gets his grown-up cello. And grown-ups have to put away their childish things. Things that threaten to tell, things that don’t mind their P’s and Q’s.” He holds his hand out, and wiggles his fingers, “Come on.”

  Reluctantly, Jimmy lays the glistening cello on its side. He puts his hand into father’s clammy grip. Father drags Jimmy back through the kitchen, down to the basement, and down the rickety stairs to the dirt-floor cellar.

  It’s hot and smells of mildew and burning oil. Cobwebs stick to his face and his neck and as they round the great black furnace he sees Maylene.

  “And when I became a man,” Father says, “it was time to put away my childish things.”

  Jimmy blinked and found himself back in the library frozen with Allegra in his lap, his left hand on her neck and his right poised with the bow. Instinctively he glanced at the clock to see how much time he’d lost. He remembered Barrett’s visit, how pretty she’d looked.

  “That’s a lovely brooch you’re wearing, Dr. Conyors,” Father taunted. “A gift no doubt … she’s trying to trick you, Jimbo. Send you back. We don’t want to go back, do we?”

  Jimmy blinked.

  He feels the heat of the furnace. There’s no more blood, just the smoky smell of burned flesh. “If anyone asks,” Father instructs, “you’ll say she went back to Georgia.”

  He blinked, and felt his hand gripped tightly on Allegra’s neck. A fury welled up and before he could stop himself he’d hurled the priceless instrument across the room. As the ancient wood leapt from his fingers, he tried to stop it. Time stretched as the Amati sailed through the air and hit the marble fireplace. For a moment he thought all would be okay, and then he heard the crack and saw the neck break away from the darkly lacquered body.

  He sobbed as he assessed the damage. Kneeling by his broken instrument, he stroked the pieces as he might comfort an injured child. “Where is she?” he cried, holding Allegra’s body in his lap and rocking. “Where is she?”

  Jimmy listens as father’s footsteps vanish up into the house. He’s been left tied up in the cellar.

  A hand with long fingers rests on his shoulder, “It’s okay, Jimmy,” Ellen says as she walks over to the furnace. She opens the grate, her face illuminated with flickers of gold. She bends down and picks up the long-handled cleaver and reaches it inside the burner. She struggles and manages to pull Maylene’s head to the opening, it tumbles and drops onto the plastic tarp. She stamps out a burning ember and kneels. “Her hair’s still good,” she says, stroking their nanny’s hair. “At least that’s still good.” She picks up the cleaver and working the blade into the charred flesh she peels back the scalp, “at least that’s still good.” Ellen’s face glows as she takes off Maylene’s hair and gently places her head back into the furnace. “Here, Jimmy,” she hands him the scalped hair, “don’t let Father ever see this.”

  The phone rang. Jimmy stifled his sobs, and reached for it.

  “Jimmy?” Ellen’s voice.

  “Ellen.”

  “What’s wrong, Jimmy? How did your session with Dr. Conyors go?”

  “Father’s here,” he said. “He got me so mad I’ve broken Allegra. You have to get her fixed before the concert.”

  “I’ll see to it. Did you tell her?”

  “Yes, I know she wants to come, I know she wants to play. I can see it, but I haven�
��t yet proved myself. There’s another test … I need your help. There isn’t much time.”

  There was a long silence, and then Ellen—as he knew she would—said, “Of course, dear.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Justine Conyors moaned and clutched the crunchy hospital pillow tighter. The clanging noise wouldn’t stop. It was familiar and annoying and it pulled her from the arms of the well-muscled man who embraced her in the warm Caribbean waters of her dream.

  She opened her eyes and reached up to the head of the bunk bed in the on-call room.

  “Whose is it?” a sleepy-voiced resident called out from the other side of the room.

  “It’s mine,” she said, swinging her scrub-clad legs over the side of the top bunk. She landed on sneakers that she’d been too tired to remove. She grabbed her wrinkled lab coat from the hook, being careful to hold it upright lest she spill out the pockets onto the floor.

  “Hurray, it’s not mine,” someone murmured as Justine gently turned the doorknob and went out into the dimly lit hallway of the fourteenth floor on-call suite. She looked at the number in her pager—it was a hospital extension.

  She dialed.

  “Dr. Conyors?” a woman’s gravelly voice picked up.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re needed in the emergency room. There’s a trauma case they want you to evaluate.”

  “I’ll be right down,” she said, trying to muster something that approximated enthusiasm.

  After she hung up, she realized that she’d forgotten to ask for the patient’s name. Then again, the nurse hadn’t offered it.

  It doesn’t matter, she thought, as she walked down the hallway toward the bank of elevators. She pictured her chief resident and mentor-of-the-month, Don Fitzgerald, and had a pleasant flashback to her dream, suddenly realizing whose muscular arms she’d been embraced by.

  When she got to the elevators she was met by a sandwich-board style out-of-order sign and matching orange plastic tape that had been stretched across the doors. “You’ve got to be kidding,” she groaned, retracing her steps and following the lit EXIT signs to the stairwell.

  She opened the door and smiled at a scrub-clad orderly who was struggling with a laundry cart. If she thought she had it bad, just imagine trying to get up and down the stairs with something like that.