It was descriptive of their relationship that either felt free to call for an adjustment of this arrangement if he felt it was necessary.
* * *
Back at work, Godwin found Betsy sorting through an order of floss. He stopped to admire Rainbow Gallery’s new colors in the Treasure Braid line, Awesome Gold, Orange, and Pumpkin. Though it was spring outside, these autumn colors made his fingers itch to stitch something in the Halloween line—and actually, it was more than time to start a fall-themed project. Godwin liked complex needlepoint pieces, which took months to complete.
He picked up the Fyre Werks cards of floss in fluorescent autumn colors. Oh my, yes, it was time to pick something for autumn!
He went to the canvas doors hanging on the wall. Wasn’t there something he’d pinned up just the other day? Ah yes, here it was, not a Halloween theme but a river-in-fall theme, with colorful trees reflected in the water, the bright reds and oranges mixed with green pine and blue water, and more subtle blending than is usual with needlepoint. Oh yes, this would keep his mind and fingers busy.
Then he looked at a lower corner of the taped canvas and yanked his hand away from the tacks holding it on to the door. Whoa! Nearly three hundred dollars! Even with his employee discount he’d have to give up a couple of outings and that fancy dinner he’d been planning if he were to buy this. Maybe he could find something similar in counted cross-stitch.
He turned away to find Connor looking at him. “Hi, Connor, is there something I can help you with?”
“I want to try to knit a Scottie dog using eyelash yarn. What do you think?”
Godwin considered this. “I love eyelash yarn, the cloud-like effect you get, like whatever you’re knitting is set in a fog, all blurred edges. The problem is, sometimes you can’t see your stitches after a couple of rows, and you end up knitting by feel. So when you put it down, you can’t remember where you left off and you make mistakes. Of course, a lot of the time it doesn’t matter, since you can’t see the stitches anyway, so if you’re doing straight stitch or knit one, purl one, that’s okay. But I’d think after that marathon of knitting we did for the auction, you’d be off knitting.”
“Yes, you’d think that. But in my case, you’d be wrong. So sell me some.”
“Sure.”
After the transaction was made, Connor took the little bag of floss and went to talk with Betsy, who was busy incorporating the new threads onto the appropriate spinner rack or into one of the little drawers of DMA and Anchor cotton floss.
“I did some more research on nicotine,” he said to Betsy. “It’s possible to extract it yourself from tobacco leaves, if you’re a chemist with the right equipment. The liquid you get when you boil tobacco, as from a cigar or cigarettes, is deadly, but it’s dark and has a very strong odor. You don’t have to be in the southern United States to grow it; there are tobacco farmers in next-door Wisconsin, convenient if you want to slip into a field and steal a few leaves—which are enormous, by the way, as big as rhubarb leaves, though longer and narrower.
“You have to obtain a license to buy the pure stuff, and it’s difficult to obtain. The University of Minnesota has one, though they were very reluctant to tell me what they use the nicotine for and not at all willing to part with even a small sample of it.”
Then he changed the subject. “I’m on my way out to do a little grocery shopping. I’m thinking to fix a British-style curry for dinner, so I need a sharp-flavored apple and a box of golden raisins. Oh, and I love you.”
“I love you, too. See if you can find a Honeycrisp apple. You’ll have to buy one that comes from down under, as the local variety is long gone from the stores at this time of year. They don’t keep, which is their only fault.”
Chapter Twenty-five
On Wednesday, Godwin came home from work to find Rafael sitting silent and motionless in semidarkness in the living room.
“What’s the matter? What’s happened?” he asked.
“My sister is on her way here from the airport—and she’s very angry at me.”
Godwin flipped the switch that turned on the lamps. “Your sister? Which one?”
“The oldest, Pilar.” He leaned forward, hands over his face.
“Why is she angry?”
He straightened, dropped his hands to show Godwin his angry, depressed face. “Because, mi gorrión, I told her—I told the whole family—that we’re getting married.”
“Uh-oh.” Godwin knew his partner’s family, while not anti-gay generally, were rabidly anti-gay in Rafael’s case. The last male twig on his family tree, he was considered the only hope of carrying on the family name. His grandmother had kindly suggested he marry a woman and keep a boyfriend on the side, just as her husband had kept a mistress—or two—on the side. She did not have to mention a certain oft-married but childless uncle with his one lifelong, very close male friend—or the spinster cousin with her series of roommates, all female.
So Rafael was not exactly an outlier; the gene was there. On the other hand, despite his family’s record, he was not prepared to sacrifice some unfortunate woman’s happiness on the altar of propriety, or himself for his family’s desire to continue the name, and had told Godwin this.
“What’s in a name?” said Rafael, plagiarizing shamelessly. “My sister has two sons and three daughters. They have the family’s blood, so it’s not as if it will vanish into the dustbin of history if I do not offer a son to the world.”
“Wouldn’t it be a hoot,” said Godwin, seeking to lighten this depressing subject, “if you did marry and your wife had six daughters?”
For some reason, Rafael didn’t think that was funny. “Then she would continue having children until there was a handsome, healthy son,” he said, and Godwin thought he said it in all seriousness. “I would not sacrifice you for anything less.”
Now, with his sister’s visit imminent, he stood and said, “Prepare for fireworks, mi gorrión. She is a tiger when she is angry.”
Godwin went into the kitchen to contemplate a dinner menu. What would a very angry upper-class Spanish woman deign to eat? Especially if prepared by her brother’s fiancé?
Godwin decided on a simple meal of tomato-basil soup, Cobb salad, and a grilled chicken breast sprinkled with herbs. And, if they were all still alive at the end of the meal, a lemon sorbet with wafer cookies.
The oven was hot, and he was rubbing the herbal mix into the meat, when the doorbell rang. Godwin heard the front door open. Rather than just press the intercom, Rafael had decided to go down and greet his sister at the main entrance, and escort her up to their apartment. That was probably a good idea, it would give Rafael a chance to gauge the strength of her anger.
A few minutes later, though the walls were thoroughly soundproofed, Godwin could hear a woman’s penetrating voice coming up the hall. He couldn’t understand the words, but he recognized the rhythms of Spanish speech. And the extra-rapid tempo made it clear that she was, in fact, angry. Very angry.
The door opened. “Ni siquiera eres un verdadero hombre!” she was shouting. Godwin’s grasp of Spanish was poor, but after a few seconds he got verdadero hombre. Real man. Oh dear, this was not good. Was it himself or Rafael she was accusing of not being authentically male?
Rafael spoke gently to her, and Godwin put the chicken into the oven, washed his hands, and fearfully went into the well-appointed living room to see who he was up against.
First of all, she was beautiful. Slender and tall, nearly as tall as Rafael, with sleek black hair pulled back into a very large bun at the nape of her neck, she had white, flawless skin. Her huge dark eyes were lined with lots of false lashes, her full mouth was painted bright, shiny red, and her long, slender neck held her head high. She was wearing leggings and boots that barely covered her ankles, a close-fitting lightweight coat with a clever collar, and thin, tight gloves. Everything she had on was black, even her but
ton earrings.
She was peeling off her gloves, and Rafael was standing behind her, waiting to help her off with her coat. When she shrugged it off her shoulders, the blouse under it was a soft black velvet that looked very simple but likely cost hundreds of dollars—Godwin had an eye for expensive clothing.
The entire time she had been looking at Godwin. At first, her magnificent dark eyes had widened as if in surprise, then narrowed.
Rafael, draping her coat over his forearm, said, “Pilar, this is Godwin DuLac, to whom I am engaged. Goddy, this is my big sister Pilar Gallardo.”
If looks could kill, Godwin would have dropped to the hardwood floor. The woman’s eyes glittered as they abruptly focused on the beautiful ruby ring that twinkled on Godwin’s left hand.
She pointed to it like a vampire spying a crucifix. “Como pudiste, Rafael! ‘El Anillo de Soto’ es un tesoro familiar, es invaluable, debe permanecer en la familia, en nuestra familia, no tienes derecho a dárselo a nadie!”
Godwin looked helplessly at Rafael. He said, “She wonders how I dare give you a family heirloom, the Soto Ring.” He said to her, gently, “Es mio, Pilar, y ahora del hombre a quien amo.” To Godwin, he translated, “The ring is mine, and I have given it to the man I love.”
“Que amas?” she shrieked. “Es una locura! Esto no es normal! Vas a destruir el linaje de nuestra familia! Como vamos a explicarle esto a nuestras amistades?”
Rafael said to Godwin, his voice still gentle, “She says I am insane and not normal, that what we are doing will destroy my family. She wonders how she will explain this to her friends.”
Godwin felt his own anger rising. “Why does she have to explain anything to her friends? They are her friends, not ours! What do we care about them? It’s our life, and we love each other.”
Rafael nodded. “You are right.” He turned back to his sister. “Tú no tienes que explicarle nada a nadie, Pilar. Es mi vida, amo a Godwin, él me ama a mí, y vamos a casarnos.”
Eyes blazing, she shouted, “Vas a matarla, a la Abuela, lo sabes, no?”
Color was rising in Rafael’s face. “This would kill our grandmother? She is stronger than either of us! She has survived worse, including her husband, including you, even including your husband!”
Surprisingly, Pilar replied in English. “I wish you dead! I wish I could kill you myself!” And she launched herself at Rafael, her fingers curved into claws. He threw up both arms to fend her off but staggered back under her weight, then sideways, falling into Godwin. She was screaming like a wildcat.
Godwin fell onto the floor, striking his head on a corner of the couch. Suddenly, his vision blurred and the sounds in the room grew softer. With an effort, he rolled onto his stomach and pulled himself free of the tangle that was Rafael and Pilar.
“Whoa,” he murmured. “Wow. Man, oh, man.” He staggered to his feet and looked back at the pair, wrapped around each other, striking at random, she screaming Spanish invective, he growling replies. Godwin went wobbling into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and got out a liter bottle of water, staggered back into the living room, unscrewing the cap as he went. The two siblings were shouting, screaming and hitting, kicking. Rolling, they thumped against the coffee table and the couch. There was a sound of fabric tearing.
Godwin coolly upended the bottle over the two of them. Two shouts rose up, different in timbre from what had been going on, and the couple broke apart.
Pilar shrieked, “Estas loco!? Que estas pensando!?”
“Well done, mi gorrión!” shouted Rafael, getting to his feet, as water rolled past his ears. He glanced with indifference at Pilar, struggling to her knees. His nose and cheek were bleeding, and his shirt was torn at the collar. He came to shake Godwin’s hand but winced when Godwin squeezed back, pulling his hand free to look with a grimace at a deep scratch on it.
Then he went to his sister, stooped, and put his hands under her shoulders to lift her to her feet. There was a red mark on her forehead, and her bun had come undone, spilling her long hair down her back. She brushed down her leggings and looked with dismay at the tear in the side seam of her velvet top.
“We have not put our hands on each other for long time,” she said in English.
“It was rude of you to speak Spanish in front of someone who could not understand you,” he said.
“Is that why you tear my clothes?”
“I was trying to get your fingernails out of my eyes.”
“Ha! I wish I had blinded you! You are too stupid! You are not thinking—” Out of vocabulary, she lapsed into Spanish. “Tu deber es primero con la familia, y asegurarte de que nuestro apellido continúe, nos estas quitando oportunidades para el futuro! Porque no haces lo que dice la Abuela? Cásate con una mujer, ten un hijo, y él podrá continuar el apellido!”
Rafael turned to appeal to Godwin. “She says my grandmother is anxious that I marry a woman long enough to sire a son, so that the family name can continue.”
Pilar said, “Si, si. Y divorciate despues si quieres, pero ten ese hijo.”
“Then,” translated Rafael, “I may divorce her if I wish, but sire that boy!”
“Yes, yes,” said Pilar, “have that boy!”
“What’s it to you?” Godwin asked her. “Don’t you have any boys of your own?”
“I have two boys.” She held up two fingers. “Two. But the importante boy must come from him,” she added, pointing to Rafael.
“Why?”
“Family,” she said, opening her arms wide¸ then raising and lowering them, to encompass the world. “Family is everything. The name is everything. Our family name is everything.”
“We are a family,” said Godwin, going to put an arm around Rafael.
“No, no, no!” said Pilar, waving a hand as if to erase what she was seeing. “That is crazy—loco—to think that!”
“Pilar, Pilar, enough,” said Rafael. “You are tired from your long airplane ride. You are tired from striking me in the face. Your hair has fallen down.”
“Eeee!” she said in a squeaky voice. She reached to the back of her head to gather her long crow black locks, twisting them around her hand and expertly tying them into a knot at the back of her head, tucking the ends inside it.
“Listen to me,” said Rafael. “Take your suitcase to our guest room and change out of that destroyed shirt. There is a bathroom at the back of the bedroom you can use to clean up. I will also clean my face and change my shirt, which you have torn. Meanwhile, Godwin will salvage what he can of dinner—”
Godwin made a squeaky noise of his own and ran for the kitchen, which was just starting to fill with the scent of overcooked meat.
He heard Rafael say in the living room, “We will eat a little something, and then maybe we can talk like civilized people. Okay?”
“Show me this guest room,” she said in a wounded, imperious manner.
* * *
The chicken was beyond repair, so Godwin discarded it. Everyone’s appetite was already dampened, so the soup, salad, a crispy loaf of French bread, and the lemon sorbet with wafer cookies was about all anyone wanted. More than enough; not even half of it was eaten.
The conversation was in English, desultory and quiet, and after they’d finished with their meal, Godwin took the dishes into the kitchen to be put into the dishwasher. With an ear cocked for sounds of combat coming from the living room, he put the dishwashing pellets into the cups and started the cycle. He went into the living room to find brother and sister sitting quietly, Pilar on the couch and Rafael in an easy chair watching darkness overtake the big, beautiful lake out the window.
“Is a silly name for a lake, no?” said Pilar. “Min-ee-tunk-a.”
“It’s Minnetonka, an Indian name,” said Godwin. “It means Big Water.”
“Is the biggest lake in this state?”
“No, it’s number nine, o
r maybe ten, I forget. There are many lakes in Minnesota. Our license plates brag that there are ten thousand, but actually there are way more than that.”
“Your license plates lie?” she said, amusement in her voice.
“No, long ago they made a guess, picked a big number, and now are stuck with it. That’s my theory, anyhow.”
“There are new lakes forming and old lakes dying all the time,” said Rafael. “It is impossible to keep track. But that is not why you are here, to count our lakes. You have made your demand, and I have declined to obey. We are at an impasse.”
“What is this ‘impasse’?”
“Punto muerto,” said Rafael.
“No, no, no,” said Pilar, with a triumphant smile. “I have arrange things at home for you. Consuela Montserrat is your bride.”
“What? What are you saying?” demanded Rafael.
Pilar continued as if he hasn’t spoken. “You remember her, she was best friends with our cousin Maria Eugenia. Very nice woman, her years are but twenty, she is pretty, she look like her mama, she have six brothers, so you see she is perfect! And when I go home, I shall . . .” She paused to translate her Spanish thoughts to English. “I shall release the news that you are promise to, to diarios—the media!” She produced the word with an effort of thought, pleased to have succeeded. “The TV, the radio, the newspapers, no? Yes! Then you must marry her.”
Rafael said nothing, but when Godwin looked at him, it was as if his partner had turned into a pale marble statue.
So Godwin spoke for him. “You can’t do that!”
Knit Your Own Murder Page 16
