Nocturne (36 page)
All of fifteen minutes downstairs, he thought.
This city.
Carella woke up at a quarter to seven that evening. The house was very still. He put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and
padded around looking for someone. Not a soul was in sight.
“Fanny?” he called.
No answer.
“Dad?”
Mark, calling from his bedroom down the hall. He was sitting up in bed, reading, when Carella walked in.
“Hi, Dad,” he said. “Have a good sleep?”
“Yes. How do you feel?”
“Much better.”
“Let’s see,” Carella said, and sat on the edge of the bed, and put the palm of his hand on Mark’s forehead.
“Where is everybody?” he asked.
“Fanny took April to ballet and Mom’s out shopping.”
“Shopping or marketing?”
“What’s the difference?”
“About five hundred dollars.”
“How can you tell my temperature that way?” Mark asked.
“Your forehead’s supposed to feel hot at first. If it continues feeling hot, you’ve got a fever.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“Trust me.”
“So what’s my temperature?”
“Ninety-eight point five. Wait,” he said, and looked at his palm. “Five and a
half
,” he corrected. “Either way, you’ll be ready for school tomorrow.”
“Good. Did you like school when you were a kid?”
“I loved it,” Carella said.
“So do I.”
“How’s the book?”
“Crap.”
“Then why are you reading it?”
“It’s the best Mom could find at the supermarket.”
“Speaks well for our culture.”
He tousled Mark’s hair, kissed him on the cheek, and was heading into the living room when Fanny came through the front door.
“Well, look who’s up and about,” she said. “Wipe your feet, April.”
April shuffled her feet on the hall mat, put down her black tote bag with the ballet school’s name and logo on it, and sat
on the hall bench to take off her boots.
“How’s Mark?” she asked.
“Better.”
“Good,” she said.
“Better get dinner started,” Fanny said, and went off into the kitchen.
Carella watched his daughter, her head bent, as she struggled with the zipper on the left boot. Of the twins, she was the
one who most resembled Teddy. The same black hair and dark brown eyes, the same beautifully expressive face. Mark favored
his father, poor kid, Carella thought.
“How was dance?” he asked.
“Okay,” she said, shrugging. “Where’s Mom?”
“Shopping.”
“Did you sleep good?”
“Well,” he said.
“Well what?”
“Not good,” he said.
“That’s too bad,” she said, and suddenly looked up at him. “Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“The other day, when Mark was feeling so awful, you know?”
“Yeah?”
“And I thought he might die?”
“He wasn’t going to
die
, honey.”
“I know, but that’s what I
thought
.”
“Well, don’t worry, he’s okay now.”
“Yeah, but that’s not what I’m trying to say, Dad.”
She seemed suddenly distraught, her brow furrowed, her eyes troubled. He sat beside her on the bench, put his arm around her,
and said, “What is it, darling?”
“When I thought he was going to die?”
“Yes?”
“I wished I would inherit his guitar.”
And suddenly she was crying.
“I didn’t want him to die,” she said.
“I know you didn’t.”
Tears streaming down her face.
“But I wanted his guitar.”
“That’s all right, honey.”
Sobbing bitterly.
“Am I a terrible person?”
“No, darling, you’re a wonderful person.”
“I love him to death, Dad.”
“We all do.”
“He’s my very best brother.”
“In fact, he’s your only brother,” Carella said.
April burst out laughing, almost choking on her own tears. He held her close, and said into her hair, “Why don’t you go say
hello to him?”
“I will,” she said, “thanks, Dad,” and rushed out of his arms and out of the room, yelling, “Mark! Wake up! I’m home!”
The old house was still again.
He went into the living room, and turned on the imitation Tiffany lamp, and sat in the comfortable easy chair under it, thinking
about Mark’s guitar and Svetlana’s cat and the dead hooker with the plastic bag over her head.
When Teddy came home some five minutes later, he watched her as she eased the door shut with her hip, and then put two shopping
bags brimming with groceries on the chair near the mirror. Watched her silently in her silent world as she took off her coat
and hung it in the closet, thinking that here in this violent city where he plied his daily trade …
Here in a universe that seemed to grow darker and darker each day until every day threatened to become eternal night …
Here there was Teddy to come home to.
He almost called her name out loud.
But she hadn’t yet seen him, would not have heard him in any event. He kept watching her. She turned toward the living room,
seeing him at last, surprised, her eyes widening, a smile blossoming on her face.
He rose and went to her.
“Ed McBain is a master. He is a superior stylist, a spinner of artfully designed and sometimes macabre plots.”
—
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