by Jo Goodman
She was being called. The voices, and she was certain there were more than one, came to her first on a delicate, undulating thread of sound. They said her name; she knew they did. How else could they hope to find her if they didn’t use her name?
She cupped one hand to her ear to funnel the sound. It was something she often did when she heard them calling. They never spoke all at once. They were an undisciplined chorus, and what they said came at her in rapid succession, the words separated by half measures, each one an echo of another. All of it indistinguishable.
All of it frantic.
She sensed new urgency in their cries. She was touched by it, but not in a tender, yearning way. This urgency had physical presence and sharp claws that dug into her flesh. She bled where they pierced her. She sniffed. That faintly metallic scent, was it her blood? She wanted to wet her lips but was afraid she’d taste blood on them. She swirled her tongue around her mouth instead and swallowed her own spit. Raising her knees to her chest, she made herself small, then smaller yet. Her hiding place was dark, but she closed her eyes to make it even darker. She could still hear them calling her, crying out, though perhaps not as loudly as before. She couldn’t be sure. What they wanted from her was a mystery. Was there something she was supposed to do? She always wondered if there was something she was supposed to do.
What she did was flatten her cupped hand against her ear. She raised her other hand and clapped it over the other ear. She could almost not hear them now. She only had to wait them out and then it would be done. They could not go on forever. No echo lasted an eternity.
She had the sense of time passing, though she could never be certain how long. She sensed she was older when they found her, not merely by a few minutes or hours, but by years. She couldn’t understand it but accepted it as the truth.
She didn’t open her eyes right away. Even when she felt the heat of sunshine on her face, she kept her eyes closed. She could hear breathing, whispers, but she wasn’t curious about these sounds. It didn’t matter. They weren’t part of the chorus. Every word was distinct.
“Christ. It’s a kid. Goddamnit, I can’t do another kid.”
“You got to. Someone’s got to. I figure I’m up two or three on you. Maybe four if you count that woman and the baby like they was separate.”
“Ain’t you got sense enough not to remind me? You wanna see me puke? This ain’t what I signed on for.”
“Ain’t what I signed on for either, but I reckon it’s what we’re in the middle of. Now, you gonna jaw about it or get it done?”
She opened her eyes. The light hurt them, and she blinked rapidly. The men moved closer together, blocking sunshine. Their faces were indistinct, protected by shadow and a penumbra of sunlight around their heads. They might have been angels, but she didn’t think so. They wore hats. She’d never seen a picture of an angel wearing a hat. They didn’t always have halos, but they never wore hats.
“What the hell are you two doing? You find something?”
She gave a start. The two men were joined by a third. His voice was hoarse. It scratched her skin, making it prickle. She stopped flattening her hands against her ears and hugged herself.
“It’s a kid,” One said. “A girl. Damn me if somehow that don’t make it worse.”
Three bent and peered into her rock shelter. “Christ.” He straightened, reached into his pocket, and withdrew something that fit neatly into his palm. After a few moments spent fiddling with it, he raised a hand to his mouth. When he spoke, his voice didn’t scrape her skin quite so much. “Leave her be,” he said.
“But you said no survivors,” Two said.
“And now I’m saying leave her be. Do you have a problem with that?”
Two hesitated before he said, “No, sir.”
“Seems like you do.”
“No, sir. Not really.”
One spoke up. “She’s gonna die here. We’re takin’ most everything.”
“So it would be a kindness to kill her now, is that what you’re saying?”
Neither One nor Two said anything. They didn’t shrug. They didn’t move. They didn’t make decisions.
“That’s what I thought,” said Three. He stared at the object in his palm, turning it over and over while the others waited for him to speak.
She waited, too. It would be important, what he said.
“Leave her,” he said at last. “And leave her this.”
She didn’t have time to prepare for the thing that was tossed in her direction. It was an afterthought, and it landed in the cradle of her dress between her knees. She stared at it and had one clear image of the afterthought before she was plunged into darkness.
And then the voices began calling to her again.
“Miss Kennedy.” Bode touched her shoulder, shaking her more forcefully than he had moments earlier. “Comfort. Wake up.”
Comfort rolled her shoulder, trying to avoid the insistent and disturbing fingers that crawled over her skin like fire ants.
“Wake up. You’re dreaming. It’s a dream.” By quickly stepping to one side, Bode managed to narrowly avoid hard contact with Comfort’s head when she bolted upright. Watching her, he rubbed his chin as if he could feel the blow that hadn’t happened. He wasn’t certain she was awake. Her stare was vacant. The dark eyes, so beautifully expressive even when she did not mean them to be, were almost frightening in their perfect emptiness.
He put himself in front of her again and hunkered down. That positioned him below her eye level in a way that he hoped didn’t threaten her. A single swift kick aimed at his chest, and he would be sitting on the floor. He tried to draw her attention to him by fanning his palm in front of her face.
Comfort blinked. “What are you doing?” She put out one hand to stop him before her eyes crossed.
Bode withdrew his hand but didn’t move away. He studied her face. Her cheeks were sleep-flushed. Her slightly parted lips looked as soft and plump as pillows. Wisps of hair framed a smooth brow and brushed her temples. He thought that if he touched the cord in her slim neck, he’d feel only a steady pulse. Searching her eyes, he found them changed as well. What had haunted them had fled, and she now returned his regard as if he were the peculiar one.
“You were dreaming,” he said.
“Was I?” Her eyes darted away, embarrassed. “I didn’t realize I was tired enough to fall asleep.”
“You don’t remember?”
“What? Falling asleep?”
He shook his head. “The dream.”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Really.” It was the only lie she could tell and have a reasonable expectation that she would be believed. She’d been practicing it for years, and when Bode didn’t press her further, she was glad she’d made the effort.
Bode stood. “I was going to have a glass of whiskey,” he said. “Would you like a sherry?”
Comfort touched her throat and nodded. She was parched. It was not possible to recall a time when she’d awakened from the dream and hadn’t felt as if she had a mouthful of dust. Swallowing was painful as she watched Bode pour the drinks.
Looking away, her gaze slid over the gilt-edged clock that rested squarely in the middle of the mantelpiece to the oil painting that hung above it. A clipper ship, one with all of her gleaming white sails straining before the wind, ran high in the water, her bow cutting sharply through foamy crests like a knife through meringue. It captured a single moment in time, but looking at it, one couldn’t fail to appreciate the artist’s mastery of motion. The clouds were ellipses, casting long shadows as they rode on the back of a swift wind. The ship drew a narrow wake, exposing the cleft in the churning water to sunlight and throwing out a thousand glittering crystals of spindrift. Her sails were stretched to their full allowance, each one of them cupping the following wind, and at the top of her foremast her colors were unfurled in a rippling, snapping line.
Bode held out a glass of sherry to Comfort and followed her gaze to
the painting when she didn’t immediately take it. “Do you have an opinion?” he asked.
She shook her head. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw he was holding her drink. She took it, sipped only enough to keep her tongue from cleaving to the roof of her mouth, and then told him, “I have a reaction.”
Curious about the distinction she made, Bode arched an eyebrow.
“I’m moved by it,” she said simply. She held the stem of her glass between her palms and rolled it slightly. “It’s a portrait, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“That’s a Black Crowne clipper. I recognize her colors. And the artist has taken some liberties with the scale of the ship against the waves. It makes me think this painting is more personal in nature. So many seascapes are about the artist’s study of light. There’s an attempt to capture reflection and distinguish the gradations of color in the sky and the sea and create a horizon that is real and yet insubstantial.” She lifted her eyes to the painting again. “This artist was trying to capture speed. Perhaps supremacy. To the extent that such things can be caught, I think he succeeded.”
“He? Are you so certain it was a man who painted it?”
Comfort tilted her head a little to the side as she studied the painting again. “No,” she said. “I don’t suppose that I am.” Her head came up sharply, and she stared at him, faintly openmouthed. “Your mother is the artist, isn’t she?”
“No,” he said, smiling slightly. “My mother is not as wildly romantic as that painting would suggest, but I think she would be flattered if you thought so. Your assumption that a man painted it was correct. The artist was my father.”
Now Comfort’s eyebrows lifted. “I never heard anyone describe your father as an artist.” Nor a romantic, she thought, but she didn’t say so.
“Well, no.” His thin smile didn’t falter. “That isn’t what anyone talked about. He gave them other things to discuss.” Bode chose the chair opposite the overstuffed sofa where Comfort sat. He leaned back and slid his long legs forward, crossing them casually at the ankle. “Many other things.”
Comfort didn’t think she was expected to respond to that. She was familiar with the gossip that accompanied Branford DeLong wherever he went and always suspected there was more than was ever repeated within her hearing. Except for a stray comment now and again, Bram remained largely silent about his father. Alexandra was equally reserved in discussing her late husband. Their reluctance to talk about him, even to appreciate his talents, made it stranger yet that Branford’s striking oil painting was displayed prominently in their home. It was of the romantic style with its vivid colors and bold, sweeping brushstrokes, but perhaps it wasn’t the artist they were admiring, but the subject, the seductiveness of the sea and the Black Crowne ship that could bring that temptress to heel.
“This isn’t the first time you’re seeing the painting, is it?” asked Bode.
“No. I’ve had tea with your mother in this parlor several times. If she noticed me staring at it, she never inquired after my thoughts.”
“And Bram? Did he never ask?”
Amused by the idea, she said, “Your brother doesn’t discuss art unless the subject is . . .”
“Naked and female?” he ventured when she fell silent.
Comfort nodded. She could have said exactly that to Bram, but his brother caused her to be strangely tongue-tied. She couldn’t put her finger on why that would be the case, but she suspected it might have something to do with his impenetrable blue-violet stare. That did not stop her, though, from adding another salient feature of the only art that Bram was likely to discuss. “And plump,” she said. “He waxes poetic if she’s plump.”
Bode’s lips didn’t so much as twitch. Instead, a small crease appeared above the bridge of his nose. He absently fingered the top edge of the silk eye patch. “What do you and my brother find to talk about? Or for that matter, what did you find to write about for so many years?”
“When you ask that question, I can never tell if it’s your brother you mean to insult, or me.”
“Bram cannot be insulted.”
She pressed the lip of her glass against her smile before she sipped. “It cannot have escaped your notice that Bram has adventures. I don’t. That’s what he wrote about, what he talks about. And he does it with a great deal of wit. It is a rare moment that he fails to entertain. That is something to be appreciated, I think.”
“You value him as your court jester, then.”
She felt her hackles rise sharply. It required considerable effort not to place a hand to the back of her neck and smooth them over. She wondered if she should point out that she could be insulted. “I value Bram’s friendship for what he brings to it that is out of the ordinary.”
“I see. And what would he say he values about you?”
Comfort considered that for a long moment before she answered. “Perhaps that I don’t judge him.”
Bode studied her and then nodded slowly. “I think you’re probably right.” He finished his whiskey, set the tumbler aside, and pointed to the clock. “I’m surprised one of your uncles hasn’t sent a carriage for you.”
She blinked. “That can’t be the right time. I thought the clock must have wound down.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“But it’s twenty minutes after eleven.” Comfort jumped to her feet. A cashmere shawl pooled around the hem of her dress. She stared at it. “Where did that come from?”
“Most recently it’s been in your lap. Before that, it covered you while you slept. And before that, it was folded across the back of this chair.”
She stooped and picked it up, closed the short distance between them, and handed over her glass and the shawl. “I have to go. Where is my jacket? My hat?”
“A moment,” he said. “And a few deep breaths.” It was good advice for himself as well. He put her glass beside his tumbler and tossed the shawl behind him. “Let me ring for Hitchens. He will make everything right. He frequently does.” He stood and crossed the room to summon the butler.
Comfort’s hand flew to her mouth. “I didn’t even ask about Bram.”
“You asked about him every other time I came in here,” he said, pulling the cord. “One oversight does not make you careless.”
“You’re not telling me anything.”
Bode managed not to sigh. “His condition is exactly the same,” he said patiently. “He’s sleeping. He’s comfortable. He’s drugged.”
“I wish you would have awakened me right away,” she said. “Perhaps I could have visited him one more time before I left.”
“You were obviously exhausted. Vigils are wearing.”
He was right about that. “Your mother’s still with him?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll relieve her, though, won’t you? She won’t leave his side otherwise.”
She won’t leave his side regardless. He did not voice what went through his mind. The words would have tasted bitter on his tongue.
Rigoletto was a disappointment, but she could hardly blame her uncles for that. They’d succeeded in surprising her with tickets to the performance, and knowing how deeply they loathed opera, she was touched by their gesture and unable to refuse it. They were aware of Bram’s invitation, of course, and equally aware that after his accident the DeLong family box would be empty. That wasn’t quite how it turned out, however, and every time Comfort’s eyes strayed from the stage, she saw Beauregard DeLong looking back at her.
Most disconcertingly, he didn’t try to pretend he wasn’t watching her. He wore the eye patch, and while she heard the explanation that he’d given at the party bandied about, no one seemed to think he was a charlatan for affecting the raffish, slightly dangerous look even though he’d only earned it by running afoul of a mother cat and her kittens. It was just as well, she thought. If the truth got about that he’d tangled with the Rangers and a band of ruffians and lived to tell the tale, there would be swooning.
/> She had run into him several times in the week since Bram’s accident. It was inevitable, she supposed, that she would see him coming or going from Bram’s bedside. He was invariably polite, though perhaps a little distant. It was hard to account for the feeling she had that he was there for her, not his brother, and she found herself thinking about him at odd moments, remembering a snippet of conversation, or more disturbing, the feel of his tautly muscled back under her feet. He never once mentioned that he would be at the opera tonight, and she wondered if she would be here if she’d known.
At the break, Newt and Tucker escorted Comfort to the lobby for refreshments. They had beer. She drank lemonade.
“Are you feeling well?” Tucker asked as they retreated to a stand of dwarf potted palms with their drinks. He hoped he could duck under the fronds and stay hidden there during the third act. “There’s not much color in your cheeks.”
“Isn’t there? I don’t know why that would be.”
“I think she looks flushed,” Newt said. “I noticed it while we were still in there. The Duke was singing. Gilda was singing. Rigoletto was singing. I was wishing they would just talk like regular folks, and I noticed Comfort looked flushed.”
“Would you like to leave?” she asked, getting to the heart of so much concern for her looks and health.
“Oh, no,” said Newt. “Promised myself that I’d stay to the end, bitter though it might be.”
“Might be?” asked Tuck, scratching his chin. “They always end bitterly. I think the Italians must be the most dyspeptic people on earth.”
Newt nodded sagely. “Probably comes from ruling the world once upon a time and then losing it all at the gambling table. That’s enough to make a whole race of people disagreeable.”
Comfort nearly choked on her lemonade. “What are you talking about, Uncle Newt?”
“That Caesar fellow. He put his empire on the table and rolled the dice.”
Tucker winked at Comfort. “The die is cast.”
She laughed, and her enjoyment of the moment put genuine color in her cheeks. It lasted until Bode joined them.
