John Hart - Iron House

Julian pulled it warm from his pocket, a scared, delighted grin on his face. “We’re really doing this.”

“You want to go first?” Michael asked.

“Together.”

Michael bent, Julian three feet away. “Wouldn’t it be funny if she forgot to put in lighter fluid?”

Julian laughed, and they lit the fire that would bring Iron House down. Flames licked up piled boxes and they moved for the door as it reached the ceiling. They stood for a full minute, watching as Julian turned the lighter in his fingers, then slipped it into his pocket. “Do you feel anything?” Michael asked.

“I feel warm.”

“Are you being funny?”

“All kinds of warm.”

They watched until it was too hot to stay, then made their way up and out, drove to the high, metal gate, then got out of the car to watch yellow fingers stroke the basement glass. “Soon,” Michael said, and Julian touched the place above his heart.

“Mom should have come.”

But Michael shook his head. “This is for us.”

“Are you happy?” Julian nodded toward Iron House.

“Shhh.” Michael said it gently. “Just watch.”

So they watched as night fell and cool air spilled from the face of the mountain. Michael draped an arm across his brother’s shoulders, and they stood in silence as glass shattered from the heat, as smoke poured out and Iron House burned.

The next days were bittersweet for Michael as Julian’s step grew light and Abigail found increasing joy in the sight of this long-troubled man moving with slow but steady grace into a better life. He would never be a strong man, but the destruction of Iron House gave him a confidence she’d never seen. She and Michael discussed it once over drinks on the terrace.

“Maybe it was the death of those boys,” Michael said.

“Or Victorine Gautreaux.”

Michael watched a boat move on the water. It was far away, but he thought he saw Victorine laugh. “She’s good for him, isn’t she?”

Abigail nodded, but her eyes were cloudy. “I keep looking for signs of her mother,” she said. Michael understood. Family was a powerful force-it could shape you, build you up or ruin you-and it was that force that made Michael’s days so unexpectedly difficult to endure. Abigail and Julian shared a connection built over years, and there was so much history there, so much understanding that Michael felt apart. They were mother and son, for better or worse, and it was hard to watch an intimacy he would never share, hard to know the truth and feel such love in secret.

She was his sister, but only in blood.

They were brothers, but so very far apart.

They all tried, of course, but Michael found, as two days grew to five, that he thought often of Otto Kaitlin. Like Abigail and Julian, they’d walked a bridge built on decades of trust and time and mutual sacrifice. And bridges like that were strong; they felt good under one’s feet. So while Michael would always be welcome, while Abigail and Julian worked day and night to make him know that fact, he kept his phone in his pocket at all times. He waited for Elena to call and slept at night dreaming of his own family-a wife and child-the dream that started all this in the first place. Until the day came when he could no longer sit still.

“Where will you go?” Abigail asked.

“I’m not exactly sure.”

“Will we see you again?” Julian’s voice broke when he said it, and every ounce of new confidence melted as he tried very hard not to beg. “We’re just getting started… We’re just…” He looked from Abigail to Michael. “Come on, man. You can’t just leave.”

“It won’t be like it was. We’ll see each other before you know it.”

“Do you promise?”

“I do.”

The boy came out in Julian’s face, all the fear and need. “Do you swear?”

Michael hugged him fiercely. “I swear.”

They said their good-byes at the house, in private, then Jessup drove Michael to airport in Raleigh. They spoke little, but that was okay. “Where do you want me to drop you?” Jessup asked.

“American Airlines.”

“Abigail said you don’t know where you’re going.”

“I don’t.”

“Okay.” Jessup followed signs to American Airlines, then pulled to the curb and stopped. Through big glass walls they saw a crush of normal people doing normal things. “Here you go,” he said, but Michael made no move to get out.

“Victorine and Julian may get serious,” he said.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“The senator’s dead. I’m leaving.”

“What’s your point?”

Michael turned in his seat. “She may find herself very alone.”

“You mean Abigail.”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“She’ll think I’m after her money.” He shook his head sadly. “It’s been twenty-five years…”

“She needs you.”

The line of Jessup’s jaw grew firm. “I’ll always take care of her.”

“It’s not the same and you know it.” Michael opened his door. “You should speak your mind.”

“And you should leave a man to tend his own business.”

Michael stared long enough to see Jessup swallow once, then climbed out and leaned back in to study the older man’s face. He saw strong lines etched by sacrifice and worry; saw want and need and deep, abiding fear. He dug for words of encouragement, but in the end said nothing. Because Jessup was right: a man should tend his own business, especially when it involved the heart. He would find the strength or not; live alone or take her hand. “Thanks for the ride,” Michael said.

“Anytime.”

Michael closed the door and thumped the roof. He went inside-no luggage or ticket-then turned before the crowd could swallow him. He saw Jessup through the glass. Pale and still, he stared a thousand yards into nothing. Michael watched for several minutes, then the man dipped his head once and the car pulled slowly away.

It took Michael another ten minutes to find the man he was looking for. Same clothes, same hat. “Do you remember me?” Michael asked.

“Hey, thousand-dollar man!”

The skycap’s face lit up, teeth big and white. Michael eased a thick wad of cash from his pocket. “How’d you like to make another five?”

“Thousand?”

“Thousand,” Michael said, and started peeling off bills.

Michael sat in a crowded café in the heart of Barcelona. His table was by the window, and he looked up often to watch people pass. A pretty girl brought him more coffee, and smiled as he tried new Catalan words and got them wrong. She corrected him, then flashed a bright smile and laughed as she moved on to another table.

Michael made a note in the margins of a thick, battered book. This was his regular place, and though everyone knew his name, that was about all they knew. He was a quiet American who kept to himself and tipped well. He lived on a narrow, cobbled street around the corner, in an apartment with a red door. He was always polite, but some of the waitresses found him sad, and worried at the cause. More than one had tried to take him home at the end of a long night, but he always gave the same answer.

Estic esperant a algú.

I’m waiting for someone.

And that’s how Michael saw it, as a wait. He told himself the same thing every day.

She will call.

Yet, five months had passed. The skycap could tell Michael only that Elena had caught the flight to Madrid; after that, he had no idea. Not much for five thousand dollars, but Michael considered it a bargain just to know. So, he’d flown to Madrid, and from there to Barcelona, which was the beating heart of Catalonia. He didn’t expect to find her here-the city had millions of residents-but that was okay, too. He just wanted to be close.