Amber Sparks - The Unfinished World - And Other Stories

The younger woman, Nadya, took the eldest’s hand in hers and turned it over to trace the creases in the palm. She hummed to herself as she did so, some ancient, sad song, full of trouble and pain. Her face, though young, was worn, her prettiness already rubbed away in the hard road life of the Roma . Finally she spoke, voice still a singsong of sorts. Your heart, she said, you will find over mountains and seas, and you two will meet but late, when you’ve nearly lost the thread of love. She put the eldest’s palm down, and smiled at her sweetly, and it wasn’t until the sisters were gone, long past the caravans and out of the camp, that she turned to the old woman. She will live a short life, bednaya devochka , she said. Poor little girl.

The Gypsy woman was right, of course, though who can say if she foretold or forced the course of events: Inge’s mother would refuse to marry and would, at thirty-three, join the German Freikorps as a nurse, following her beloved brother into the Boer War. Once there, she would watch her brother die at Elandslaagte, and nurse to health a handsome British soldier. And she would follow him back to Ireland — to her fortune, to her children, to her early grave.

When Inge’s aunt got to the end, she reached for Inge’s hand and told her, Never mind that last bit. I made that up, of course. To make myself feel better.

My father blames me, said Inge. He blames me for her loss.

No one, said her aunt, is responsible for the way they come into this world. But men often forget that. It doesn’t do to dwell on the past, she said, and she shook her head. It’s the women who usually have to remember that.

Curiosity #49: Partial mermaid’s skeleton, circa 1822. Discovered in the stomach of a shark caught off the coast of Iceland. Eyewitnesses gave hair color as brown, skin color as green, and sex as most likely female. The eyes, they reported, were blue as the sea .

When Oliver died, Desmond stayed locked in the parlor for weeks, making furious notes in the black notebook. Then he emerged, only to vanish down the drive, Set supposed for good. Set took to hovering in the parlor’s darkened doorway, watching the cold, barren fireplace as if Oliver would reappear there. He wasn’t sure whether he hoped for that or not. He wasn’t sure what the rules were, how you came back: how many tears shed or wishes made or memories drummed up after death.

Instead it was Desmond who came back, briefly. They sat on Pru’s porch in silence. Set had heard that Desmond also had the flu, and when he came out of a three-day fever dream to find Oliver dead, he loaded a pistol and stood in front of the cabinets for a long, long time. He put the pistol in his mouth and took it out, put it in and took it out, and finally placed it on the floor and walked away.

Set had supposed Cedric never much cared for Oliver, but he seemed utterly undone by his brother’s death. He took the train back from California, missing the funeral but not the opportunity to shout at them all: at Pru, at Desmond, at Constance — and especially at Set, incomprehensible madness about sacrifice and substitution. It should have been you, he told Set, and Set wept alone in his bedroom because it wasn’t. Death demands a sacrifice, Cedric told Set at the dinner table, and Pru slammed down her fist so hard the pot roast jumped. She glared, and Cedric got up and left, shouting all the while in Italian, in Latin, in some other language that Set didn’t know. Set stared at his potatoes, speared one with a shaking hand.

Set, Pru said. He loves you. He loves us. He’s trying his best to be brave, that’s all.

But Set didn’t think that was all. Something happened that shook him, shattered him, and he didn’t suppose it was brave, though perhaps there was a kind of love behind it. One afternoon, just before Cedric was to leave for Hollywood again, Set was in the pool, swimming slow laps and missing Oliver. He felt a hand on his neck, his head pushed down into the blue. He knew not to breathe in the water, but panicked as the hand stayed steady, kept him firmly submerged. He held his breath and tried to shake off the hand and saw the edges of his vision start to blacken and smear. Help, he thought, and the hand stopped taking life and gave it, pulled him up by his hair, dragged him off to the side of the pool and draped him there, coughing and sputtering and swearing. It was Cedric.

You were drowning, he said firmly, insistently, and his eyes were dark, his suit sopping wet.

Set stared. He clung to Cedric’s suit coat, even now, couldn’t pry his own hands from his older brother’s arm. He gasped and flopped and coughed and clung.

You were drowning, said Cedric, but I didn’t let you drown. I didn’t. You should remember that.

Set leaned over and threw up his lunch in response.

He wanted to tell Pru what had happened, but he didn’t quite dare. Pru was hardly herself, anyhow. She pounded the piano and tore up her latest manuscript. Her hair went white overnight. She threw her long shadow over Set after that. When she wasn’t there, she asked Constance to leave her city apartment and stay with Set, who at sixteen was humiliated.

Set wanted out. His home felt like a mausoleum now. Cedric was in Hollywood making his pictures, Pru was locked in her grief, and Constance chafed at her forced return. And Oliver was clearly not coming back, in spirit form or any other. Set ambushed Pru in her bedroom, where she sat grimly pinning up her long white hair. I want to go to school, he said. Pru shook her head fiercely, scattering hairpins across the vanity. No, she said. You have good tutors, she said. It’s not safe for you to leave us. We don’t know what might happen. She tucked a pin expertly into the corner of her mouth and twisted a section of hair back and under.

You’re all bloody mad, you know. He stopped, shrank back. He’d never spoken that way to Pru before.

Pru plucked the pin from her mouth and shoved it into the last unruly wisp. She turned to him. Insolence won’t help. You’ll do as you’re told, and no more talk about it. And she pushed him out and shut the door. Set thought he could hear her crying softly through the oak, though he told himself he had surely imagined it.

Once the War was over, Pru had promised her own sort of familial truce. Set had high hopes, but what it amounted to was this: Pru took her youngest son to London to visit her relations, and this was even worse than the house on Long Island. Pru, her mother, and grandmother seemed to be the only people left, and the three of them in the vast house in Kensington put him in mind of Macbeth’s witches. They dressed in black and spoke in whispers, and lived in a house that was nothing short of Gothic, all winding turrets and blood-colored wallpaper and old furnishings covered in sheets. They seemed to live mainly in two or three rooms, floating about the darkened house like restless spirits. His old, old great-grandmother boxed his ears with astonishing force when he put his elbows on the table at dinner. Set lay awake at night, terrified to sleep, sure they were casting uncharitable spells to fill his underwear with snails or turn his blankets to adders. Despite his misgivings, he wrote to Cedric in Los Angeles but received no reply, and became convinced the witches were burning his mail. He missed his brothers like lost limbs and the hollow inside him was growing; it hurt, he ached with it. He clung, still, was lost without them, was immensely relieved when Cedric wrote back, begrudgingly allowing him to come to California. Cedric was lonely past bearing, alone among the infidels. Perhaps, then, it was for Cedric’s sake that Pru relented at last.