The Mountains Bow Down (35 page)

At the elevators outside the Salt Spray, I pushed my elbow into the Down button, then glanced back into the restaurant. Jack was sitting alone at a table for two, gazing out the window. The early evening light had a happy childlike quality, that golden feeling of sun and cold water and mountains so unspoiled and untouched by man, that we seemed the first to see them. As he stared out at the passing beauty, Jack kicked off the mean black shoes that made him limp and wiggled his toes. There was no pouting. No taking up his right to blame me for the mess we were in, and before I could stop it the thought licked across my mind:
DeMott wouldn't be this nice, especially if he had to eat alone
.

I stared down at the heavy tray. Plates were wedged beneath more plates, like some visual demonstration of tectonics. Subducted lasagna, metamorphic Alfredo, dinner rolls rimming the tray like a chain of volcanic islands, complete with butter-pat lava. When the elevator
ding
ed open, four women stepped out, each wearing an Alaska-themed sweatshirt. The best was “Moose me yet?”

Inside the elevator I propped the tray against the handrail and pushed the button for Deck Four. The infirmary. The ten-floor descent took seven stops. Everybody was heading to dinner, nobody got on alone, and each offered my caloric allotment expressions that ranged from curiosity to pity. The last couple exited at Deck Six, the level with the Italian trattoria, and when the door closed and the elevator dropped again, my mind drifted back to the Greek myth of Persephone, descending into the underworld.

It was a story that captivated my imagination from an early age. Both impossibly scary and perfectly plausible, the myth involved a lovely maiden who was kidnapped by the ruler of the dark underworld. After Persephone is taken, her mother grieves, walking the earth, waiting for her return. Persephone is finally allowed to leave, but only for a short while. The pattern repeats annually, and the Ancient Greeks used the myth to explain the seasons. Spring life when Persephone leaves Hades, autumn death as she returns. But as I carried the food-laden tray into the clinic, I felt something uncomfortable, that sensation that precedes sudden and unpleasant realizations. I suddenly knew why that myth captured my imagination.

My mother's worst episodes plunged her into some dark and cavernous territory. And while she was gone, her family waited for her return.

But another element, even more disturbing, hit me as the automatic doors to the clinic
whoosh
ed open.
Persephone was the daughter
. But our roles reversed in these dim hours and here I came bringing food, nurturing the lost child, trying to lure her back into the light. And I was trying everything. When my mother felt good, she ate nothing but health food. Which explained my choosing salad and broiled fish. But when the chasm opened, she craved comfort food. Cake. Lasagna. Bread and butter. Like ballast anchoring her to the world above.

I rested the heavy tray on the circular reception desk. My shoulders burned from the weight. Nurse Stephanie was on the phone.

When she hung up, she looked at the tray and said, “Did you ask Dr. Coleman if she can eat that?”

“No.”

“He just upped her medication. She could be nauseated.”

“Can I see her?”

“No. Somebody's already in there.”

I stood at the edge of the door and saw Aunt Charlotte sitting on the edge of the bed. Her bright silk clothes looked even more colorful against the room's white sterility. When she looked over, I waved. She gave no response and turned back to my mother. Squeezing her hand, promising she would come back, my aunt walked from the room, pushing me out of the way and pulling the door closed.

“She doesn't want to see you,” she whispered.

Behind me, Nurse Stephanie clucked her tongue.

I looked over at her. She picked up a file from the desk, feigning interest in the medical forms. Aunt Charlotte grabbed my hand, leading me into the next room. It looked identical to my mom's. White. Disinfected. Lonely.

“She's afraid,” my aunt said.

“I know, that's why she's here. So she can feel safe again.”

“No, she's afraid of
you
.”

“Me?”

“You've committed her to an asylum.”

“This is an infirmary.”

“She says you're after her money.”

“What money?
”

“I had the same thought.” My aunt gave a slow shake of her head. The amber hair was dry, brittle. “David was a great man, but he never cared much about money. Or the FFVs.”

First Families of Virginia, the Colonial settlers who became British burgesses, then Revolutionaries, and later Confederates whose precious bloodlines were tracked by Richmond's ruling oligarchy. David and Charlotte Harmon's blood ran straight back to Jamestown. Mine didn't. Not unless adoption counted. And in that cloistered circle of status, it didn't.

“If it weren't for you, your mother would be in the poorhouse,” Aunt Charlotte said. “Where she got this idea about money, I don't know. But she said you kicked the boarder out of her house. Wally? Was that his name?”

I sat down on the empty bed. The crisp white linens were stretched over the mattress tight as straightjackets. Closing my eyes, I leaned forward and tried to breathe. Wally Marsh had lived with us for several years in the big house on Monument Avenue. He was like family. Unlikely family—a rail-thin photographer with a chip on both black shoulders. But Wally was among the loyal few who waited for my mother's return from the dark underworld. Last December he died, and in the aftermath, I chose to tell my mother that he decided to move out, find his own place. Another lie. Another deception. Another attempt at protecting her. And now something cinched around my lungs like a lariat.
I lied to protect myself
. My heart accelerated with the thought, running to escape.

“Raleigh? Are you all right?”

I nodded.

“You want to hear the rest?”

There's more?

Lying again, I nodded.

“The FBI bugged our cabins with listening devices. And her food's poisoned.”

I placed my hands on my head, repeating three words.
Do not cry. Do not cry
.

“And she thinks there's a madman loose on the ship, trying to kill everyone. But then, Claire says the same thing.”

“Because Claire's crazy too.” I looked up.

“You're wrong. Claire is spiritually tapped in.”

“To what—a sewer line?”

“You're so hard on her, Raleigh.”

“No, you're too soft. All this stuff about crystals and vibrations, all this earth-worship nonsense, it's dangerous. Especially for her.”

She waved her plump hand, dismissing me. “Not this lecture again.”

“Listen to me, Aunt Charlotte. How do you know all this hocus pocus
didn't
cause her breakdown?”

“Because I know.” She crossed her arms stubbornly. “I know how when I tore that Episcopal brace off my neck, I felt free. Finally. I could live
my
life the way
I
wanted. And I've never been happier.”

Her defensive tone silenced me.

I knew my aunt's life. We lived with her for several months. Her life was one long chasing after wind. She followed the currents as though each shift meant there was a new intentional path. But somewhere deep within her heart, the void persisted. It was real. And I could see it, a hunger in her soul that yearned for peace and tranquility and truth. That was what drove her, that was what spurred the search for harmony. But like a traveler whose journey never ended, because it had no authentic destination, her quixotic path filled me with sadness.

“I don't want to argue, Aunt Charlotte.”

“Neither do I. The real issue is Nadine. What do we do? Somebody needs to stay with her but it can't be you. She doesn't trust you. That leaves me. Or Claire.”

“No Claire. No way.”

“But—”

“Don't make me say it again.”

She sighed. “Raleigh, you've got some kind of . . . vendetta against Claire.”

“It's not a vendetta. It's about keeping Mom safe. I'm sorry, I realize that puts more pressure on you, and that it's totally unfair, especially since you were the one who got us these cruise tickets but—”

“Don't you dare.” She pointed her finger. “Don't you dare insult me. We are
family
.”

In her bright eyes, across her intelligent broad forehead, I saw my dad. There was a piece of him here, and
not
here. The fragile presence made my bond with his sister feel both tangible and too delicate to touch. A wafer-thin connection, capable of shattering with one careless flick of the wrist. We disagreed, she and I. We saw the world from distinctly different plateaus. It mattered. And it didn't.

When she opened her arms, there was no hesitation.

Her hug was warm, sheltering, and my throat tightened against tears. I held them back, feeling that cocoon, that nest, the kin who call you their own.

They are the people who stand up in this hard, hard world, holding out that soft landing.

Chapter Thirty-one

T
he phillumenists, it turned out, weren't meeting in the Chinese Palace. They were in the conference room next door.

It was a plain space—remarkable on the ship for simply being ordinary—but smelled of sesame oil and peppered beef and I was suddenly wishing for the food I left at the medical clinic. I left it all, hoping to lure Persephone from the dark.

But my stomach was growling as Jack and I made our way past the many tables that displayed different matchbook collections. Some silver-foiled, shiny as magpie lures; others made of bark and balsa wood and cut into shapes resembling medallions and coins and wheels. There were even antique matchboxes with Revolutionary War emblems, faded down from the Ben Franklin era.

“Striking, aren't they?” Jack asked.

I groaned.

“It's safe to say these guys have a burning desire for matchbooks.”

“Jack, enough.” But I couldn't help smiling.

“One more?”

“No.”

“I'm fired up about this case.”

“Stop.” I felt almost dizzy, still clutching that despair from the medical clinic, now catching Jack's buoyancy and laughter.

“You do realize,” he said, “the last name is Sparks?”

The elder Sparks stood in the far back wearing his phillumenist club cap and the quilted red vest with the flapping covers. To his left an overhead projector beamed a bright square on the back wall, waiting for a presentation. Beneath that, Sandy Sparks was digging through some boxes as his father looked on. Sandy also wore a cap but it wasn't for the phillumenists. It was the blue-and-gold spartan cap, the one he wore to my aunt's seminar.

And standing with the Sparkses was a young guy with a fulsome blond ponytail. It was the second cameraman. The guy who wanted to direct.

Sparks opened another box, looked through it. “We'll work something out,” he told the cameraman. “Maybe a percentage of the profits.”

The guy's face lit up. “Yeah?”

Jack whispered to me, “Like that movie's going to make a profit.”

I nodded, trying not to think about how good he smelled.

“Keep the dad busy,” Jack continued. “I'll go talk to our pal Lysander.”

All three men froze as Jack approached, but the elder Mr. Sparks showed the most fear. When I came up on his other side, I pointed to the matchbooks on the table.

“Is that Zazu Pitts?” I asked.

Startled, he turned. Then gazed down at the table. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

“And that one looks like Gloria Stuart.”

He leaned back. “You're correct.”

I named the other faces lined up in a row on the table. Katherine Hepburn. Slim Summerville. George Raft.

Mr. Sparks gave the vest a firm tug, bouncing the matchbook covers. “You seem much too young to know.”

“My dad and I watched the old classic films. They were his favorites.”

“Mine as well,” he said. “This particular collection is known as The Silver Screen Test set. It's quite rare. I had to travel all the way to Australia to find Richard Arden. Frances Dee? She made me go to Newfoundland.”

“You've been collecting awhile?”

“Thirty-seven years.”

“Really?”

“Started the day I quit smoking.”

“That's an interesting connection.”

“Yes, it seems odd to people, until I explain that a matchbook's value plummets if the cover is struck. You can't collect them and use them.”

Over by the boxes, Jack was taking Sandy aside, speaking to him confidentially.

“And you probably appreciated the term
phillumenist
,” I said. “Your son told us you taught Greek and Latin.”

“He did?” The father looked pleased.

“Yes.” I smiled. “
Lysander
mentioned it.”

His skin buckled back, thick but pliable. There was a forensic term for that skin. Ichthydermis. Literally, fish-skin. The Greeks once again showing their precision for naming.

But his smile faded as he looked over at his son. “He never cared for his name. Now I understand. But when he was born, my passion for ancient Greece consumed every thought. Lysander seemed like a strong, noble name. It wasn't until years later that he told me how the children teased him, called him ‘Lice,' all sorts of horrible monikers.” He sighed. “Fortunately he doesn't hold it against me, and he kept me in his last name, but everyone calls him Sandy now. Except me. It was my wife who—” He turned, suddenly remembering me. “He explained her problem? She doesn't mean to take things.”

“Yes.” I nodded. “Her Alzheimer's must be difficult for you.”

“Doris.” His old gray eyes misted. “I called her Dorics. My classical column, holding up the whole structure. She really understood the children much better than I. When Lysander left for college, I pressured him to study the classics. But Dorics insisted he should find his own path, way out in California. She always said he was more Athenian than Spartan. And she was right.” Gazing once again at his progeny, the father seemed a little awed. “My son has done quite well for himself. And do you know he still calls us every single day?”