by L. A. Zoe
“Singing?” Voice trembling.
“Sure, late at night sometimes, when I have trouble getting to sleep,” Mother said, ignoring my shock. “Like a lullaby. You know, I used to sing to you two when you were babies. I think, now she’s an angel in Heaven, she wants to return the favor.”
The salt burned through my tear ducts before I could even think. I turned to Georgie. Behind Mom’s back, he frowned, shaking his head, asking me to change the subject.
“Anyway, I don’t know how often I can get out,” I said. “So I wanted to tell you. And explain we’re moving out of the room. And I’ve got phone numbers. Five landlines go into the house. And here’s Mr. Cunningham’s work number. And his personal cell. Don’t call that one unless it’s an emergency and you can’t reach me any other way.”
Neither Mom nor Georgie have cellphones. As he wrote all the numbers down, Georgie shook his head and chuckled. “How anybody can remember all these, I don’t understand.”
“You’re expected to enter them into your own cellphone’s list of personal contacts,” I told him, smiling. “And here’s my Gmail address.”
“What’s that?” Georgie asked.
“Email.”
“We don’t have a computer, dear,” Mom said.
“You kids today,” Georgie said, half-disgusted. “When I was growing up, I didn’t want my parents to know half the places I went after school. If they could’ve called me up anytime my buddies and I went driving around drinking, I would’ve had to run away.”
“You can take any of my medicines for Rhinegold,” Mom said out of the blue.
“What?”
“My medicines. Look at all those bottles and boxes. I’ve got more than any one person ought to take every day. Give Rhinegold whatever he needs.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not his doctor. And those are for you. Anyway, his doctor treats him without medicines.”
Mom continued to watch the now-silent golf tournament. “Oh, well, I was just trying to help.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Honey,” Mom said. “You take care of yourself, hear me now? I love Rhinegold like he was already my son-in-law, but it’s still you I worry about. If he’s really sick, don’t let his delusions drag you down. Cut him loose if you have to. It’s time for you to make your own life. You took care of me too much, too long. You don’t owe him or anybody.”
I stood up. “I’ll remember your advice, Mom.”
Georgie jerked himself to his feet too. “I’ll walk you to the door, if you don’t mind, SeeJai.”
Georgie’s steps leading me out were slower than when he let me in. And instead of him opening the door just for me, he kept going so his large belly pushed me out into the hallway. He joined me, shutting the door behind us.
“What’s wrong?” I whispered.
“Just thought I’d explain. She’s still having good days and bad days, but more bad days than before.”
“Oh, Georgie.” I put an arm around his shoulders and hugged him. “Tell her doctor if you have to. She’s been so much better ever since she met you. You’ve been the best medicine she’s ever taken.”
“Thank you, dear,” Georgie said. “I figured you could tell in there she’s slid a little farther off her rocker. I wanted to let you know, I’m on it. I watch her every minute.”
I hugged him again. “That makes me feel a lot better.”
“So you take care of your boyfriend. I’ve never known Rhinegold to need anybody, he always seemed so strong, so sure of himself. But on the streets, there’s always somebody bigger, stronger, a better fighter, or better armed than you.”
“I’ll do my best. I never loved a man before, but I love him.”
“He’s a lucky guy,” Georgie said.
“I’ll tell him you said so.”
“If he wants to argue, tell him I’ll beat his ass to prove it. I can still take him, even without all my toes.”
Chapter Fifty
In the Basement
Bright sunlight streamed through the upper halves of the large picture windows looking out over the backyard patio and swimming pool.
All white, covered with unbroken snow and ice.
Snow drifts caked the lower halves of the glass, casting bluish shadows.
Barefoot, Rhinegold walked fast to keep up with the black rubber of the treadmill. He wore only yellow cotton boxer gym shorts and a Nightwish t-shirt.
“This sucks the big one,” he said.
“Stop whining, or I’ll never again suck your big one,” SeeJai, standing nearby, said.
A faint sheen of perspiration coated his skin, but he didn’t breathe fast or feel his heart pounding. Until then, he could hardly believe he was exercising.
Bathory’s Nordland I played over the nearby sound system speakers.
“Let’s go outside,” Rhinegold said. “I’ll show you the Forbidden Forest.”
“Not until your arm gets a lot better,” SeeJai said. “Didn’t you listen to the doctor and the nurse?”
“We’ll be careful,” Rhinegold said. “We don’t even have to run, let alone fight. It doesn’t have real giant spiders or centaurs in it.”
“Great.” SeeJai waved her arm at the windows. “Look out there. Even more snow than in the city, some of it drifted as high as your shoulders. And layers of ice that look like they’re not going to melt until July. All you have to do is fall one time, and those staples will really rip the shit out of your arm.”
“I’ll wear my old track shoes,” Rhinegold said.
SeeJai snorted.
“They’ve got spikes. For a big, tall guy, I could sprint a mean 220.”
SeeJai rolled her eyes.
The basement stretched far behind them, occupying a lot of space below the mansion. Toys. Video games, including an ancient one called Pong. TVs with DVD players and big couches to sit on in front of them. Ping pong tables. Pool tables. Billiards tables. Karaoke machines. MP3 players. Dartboards. Old school pinball machines.
Glowing neon signs for Budweiser, Mississippi Bottom Mud, and Schlitz beer. Several small u-shaped light-brown wood counters with bar stools.
In the old days when Rhinegold gave a party, he invited the entire middle school.
Rhinegold said, “We can wear snow shoes, like an Arctic native. They’re still hanging in the garage.”
“We stay inside until the wound heals over,” SeeJai said. “You can walk, but you can’t run. You can lift weights with your right hand, but not your left.”
“I’m not crazy any longer,” Rhinegold said. “That deserves something.”
“Then you understand you should take care of your left arm, so you’ll heal as fast as possible. You won’t be a good fighter until then. Even superheroes have to take time to recover from their wounds.”
In a far corner sat a small kitchen. Freezer, where Father kept the venison steaks a client gave him every fall after hunting season. Not to mention many pizzas and quarts of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, at least ten flavors. Refrigerator full of cans of beer and soda, and bottles of Evian. Small sink. Shelves of Fritos corn chips, Double Stuf Oreo cookies, and pistachio nuts.
A bathroom off to the side, with a full bath and shower, where Rhinegold had strict orders to clean up and change clothes when coming in from a workout or outdoor adventure.
“Logic. So I’m stuck inside watching movies. Twenty minutes, and I’m not even breathing hard yet.”
“Didn’t those old-time Vikings spend most of winter cooped up inside? And they didn’t have DVDs to watch.”
“Why they went crazy sometimes. Cabin fever. When you can’t even cross the snow and ice to rape, pillage, and plunder innocent people, life loses its flavor. I already called Greco and Ami, told them I wouldn’t be available for at least a few weeks.”
“How’d they take it?” SeeJai asked.
“Not good. Accused you of trying to get me to leave the streets, go to school, and get a real job.”
“
And I’m proud to plead guilty as charged.”
As he continued to work off his frustrated energies on the treadmill, SeeJai wandered around, exploring.
At the bookshelves, she turned her head to the side to read the titles.
Rhinegold remembered them all:
All seven Harry Potter books, the entire 1960s Ballantine Adult Fantasy series. Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit. The Gormenghast trilogy. All the Conan books by Robert E. Howard. Fafhrd and the Grey Mouser by Fritz Leiber. Wheel of Time by Robert Jordan. The Talisman by Stephen King and Peter Straub. All five volumes of George R.R. Martin’s Game of Thrones series, and more.
Not far away would be videocassettes and DVDs. All the movies and TV shows made from his favorite books, and stacks of original fantasy works.
And other sets of shelves held his CDs.
Folk, Viking, and symphonic metal groups from Epica to Nightwish to Bathory. Spaced out psychedelica from The Moody Blues to Pink Floyd to Phish. Collections of medieval songs, from authentic recreations to modern pagan folk groups such as Omnia and Faun. A weird jazz guy who named himself after an Egyptian god—Sun Ra. Hurdy gurdy tunes and all nine of Beethoven’s symphonies. Albums of Celtic music.
Rhinegold kept a lot of his collection in his bedroom. At the Valentine’s Day party, all those books, movies, and CDs seemed to still be there, though he was too busy making love to SeeJai to pay attention.
But when he was a teenager he spent a lot of time down in the basement. He enjoyed having duplicates of everything he liked within easy reach. One of the many advantages to having a wealthy father and permanent possession of one of Father’s Visa cards.
He never lacked for friends wanting to come over and hang out with him, but often spent the evenings after school alone, absorbed in fantasy adventures.
Rhinegold’s arm began to ache, the signal to stop, according to the nurse. He remained on the treadmill.
Visiting the king’s castle for the Valentine’s Day party had been like returning to his high school years. Seeing Keara for the first time since Father kicked him out, making love to SeeJai in his old bedroom …
He hadn’t even thought to come down there to the basement, where he spent so many happy hours as a kid and in middle school, before Keara arrived to complicate his life, like the fulfillment of an ancient prophecy, bringing his deepest dreams to life.
Before Keara, he assumed magic something to drink as a consumer. Fantasy lands existed only in books, recreated in movies, and evoked in music.
Not real.
After Father married Sybille, and Keara moved in, he realized the magic realms of faeries did exist. And if he wished hard enough, he could manifest some of their unique energies.
He attracted Keara, the first princess of light, into his life.
Then he lost her—as everything in the world was temporary and must eventually die and dissolve into nothingness—and now had SeeJai.
Another moonchild. Another princess shimmering with starlight.
The one true love of his life.
Who ought to stop badgering him to get a life.
Chapter Fifty-One
Keara Visits
After Rhinegold finished trudging about ten miles on the treadmill, he drank two bottles of cold water, and lay on a couch while I continued to walk around, exploring.
If only I were a thirteen-year-old boy, I’d be in Heaven. Even so, getting paid to stay there with Rhinegold was obviously going to be a lot more fun than waiting on tables at the Sunshine Garden.
I asked him to play some music I’d like, but he didn’t have any Avril Lavigne, Coldplay, or Train. Of course, nothing that came out in the past two years, since his father banished him from the house. Later I might try some of the classical records, but I didn’t feel ready to make the effort to enjoy “great” music.
So I just let Rhinegold play his weird metal albums. Most of them with melodious female singers and men growling like demons. And few in English, so I couldn’t understand most of them even if I wanted to.
We played video games and ping pong. He taught me pinball with physical balls, but we had to quit when he kept shaking the machines so hard they always tilted, and his left arm ached.
His father and Sybille left in the late afternoon to attend a fancy dinner at their country club. Mr. Cunningham came down to tell me we could ask the cook to fix us dinner if we liked, but instead we just warmed up a frozen pizza in the basement microwave. Sitting together at a small table, eating pizza, drinking Pepsi, and dining on chocolate chip cookies for dessert. Nothing different than what we did back in our own little room in the Spanish Quarter.
Except we had at least twenty times the space. Maybe more, counting our bedrooms and the upstairs family room, which also contained a large screen TV and plenty of games, books, CDs, and DVDs.
I made a mental note to look through it tomorrow. With any luck, I’d find CDs and movies Sybille bought I’d enjoy a lot more than Rhinegold’s.
I relaxed so much, I began to feel guilty. I was getting paid, after all. Even more than my regular job. That’s because when Mr. Cunningham asked me how much I made, I started out giving him the total for a busy Saturday night when I closed. I intended to work down from there to come out with a fair weekly total, but he just waved his hand, too impatient to listen further, and multiplied that one night’s total by seven days in the week, and didn’t want to analyze it any further.
Just chickenfeed to him, no doubt.
And, technically, I was “on duty” twenty-four/seven.
So here we were, eating, talking, and laughing—and I hadn’t done anything yet to “cure” him. I kept him from going outside and maybe tearing his arm up even worse, but that’s all.
Heck, how was I supposed to “cure” Rhinegold? Nobody explained that to me. His father just wanted me to stay with him, as a good example, even though I was no longer working at my job. I was saving money to buy a car and go to college, but that didn’t take any time, and it wasn’t something Rhinegold could watch me accomplish. I wasn’t in school yet.
I believed Mr. Cunningham felt my presence would help Rhinegold maintain contact with reality, whether he liked it or not.
Sounded logical, but would that by itself eventually “cure” him?
I spoke with his doctor, a short Indian man in a European-styled black wool suit.
“Worry not,” he said to me. “It is not problem.”
“But —”
“Worry not. All Mr. Rhinegold needs, you are. He is missing the purpose of life, that is all.”
Just that quick dismissal, and he rushed out the door, albeit with an upright posture and great dignity.
I got the idea, maybe it would help Rhinegold to talk about his fantasies, about them and reality. Isn’t that what psychiatrists always did in the movies? Get people lie down and just talk, until they understood their problems, and therefore were cured of their problems.
So Rhinegold and I sat down to watch the first part of The Lord of the Rings trilogy together, The Fellowship of the Ring. I missed it when it came out, and never bothered to watch it since. Not the kind of flicks Helena and I rented on DVD.
I could see the appeal of the Shire. Small, cute people who worked hard but liked to party down. Nothing to worry about except bad weather. Farmers who owned their family fields and flocks, with no lords and nobles. Personal squabbles, but no serious crimes. No drugs stronger than pipe-weed.
They kept themselves apart from the outside world and its problems.
Rhinegold and I were talking about how Frodo didn’t set out to save Middle Earth. As Bilbo’s nephew, he had more desire for adventure than other hobbits, but he didn’t want the responsibility of bearing the Ring, at least as far as he understood what Gandalf told him of its power.
If Frodo knew from the get-go he’d have to journey far into Mordor, survive months of privation, be captured and almost eaten by a giant spider, suffer the emotional and psychological—spiritual, really, i
f I wanted to use that word—torment from the Ring itself, and experience many other unpleasant situations, he’d have just said, give the job to somebody else, I refuse.
And who could blame him?
Yet Rhinegold wanted to be the hero. To face challenges, to fight evil.
He just shrugged. “So I’m a knight, not a hobbit. A king, like Aragorn. Or a sort of freelance hero, like Gandalf, except I don’t know any magic. Both Aragorn and Gandalf traveled around Middle Earth looking for evil to kill and defeat.”
The Fellowship of the Ring was in Lothlorien meeting Galadriel when Keara walked in, startling us both.
Rhinegold knocked the bowl of popcorn to the floor, and I thought my heart jumped out of my chest.
She’d taken off her coat, but the outside winter chill still clung to the rest of her clothes. She faced me. “You’re supposed to be helping him!”
I didn’t know what to say. Shocked, trying to calm down because Rhinegold and I thought we were alone in the entire mansion.
With one arm draped over my shoulders, Rhinegold squeezed my shoulder, then stood up. “Hello, Keara,” he said in a happy, friendly voice. “Good to see you. Have a seat? I’ll clean this mess up and put another bag in the microwave.”
Keara wore blue-green knit pants, a white blouse, and a sweater matching the pants. Sweet and demure as well as gorgeous.
But she stood with her hands on her waist, glaring at me.
I stood up too, as though greeting her, then sat back down. I paused the movie, then said, “We were just watching The Fellowship of the Ring. If you’d prefer something else—”
— she could use another TV, I didn’t say. Not like the mansion didn’t have enough. At least one other there in the basement. The family room. No doubt one in her old bedroom.
“I see that!” she barked.
“Uhhh, we weren’t expecting you. I guess you know there’s plenty of food.”
Probably hoping to escape the middle of a catfight, Rhinegold scuttled to the kitchen to put another bag of popcorn into the microwave.
