Busted Flush

Double Helix

GO UP INTO GILEAD, AND TAKE BALM

Melinda M. Snodgrass

SHE’S READING TO MY father—Lucky Jim, one of his favorite books for its vicious look at the British education system. Her voice is a low chuckle like the sound of water in a fast stream. Last night I slept in my own bed for ten straight hours. I had heard Dad moaning in the wee smalls, but when I’d gone to his room Niobe had been there before me, bathing his forehead with cool citrus water. They had both ordered me back to bed, and their air of command had been both charming and amusing. I allowed myself to be dictated to.

There’s the yeasty smell of toasting bread from the kitchen. Drake has discovered the joys of Nutella. He emerges into the hall holding seven slices slathered with the chocolate/hazelnut concoction in one hand and a large glass of milk in the other. My mouth is suddenly watering. I snag one of the slices.

“Hey!”

I smile down into his round, outraged face. “It’s nice to share.”

The blush dots his face with red splotches. “They’re not all for me. They’re for Niobe and your dad.” He shuffles a bit. “And me.”

“If you can get my father to eat one of those slices I will bless you.”

He scurries away and I follow at a more sedate pace. Mum is off at another conference in London. I know she’s sought after, but it’s starting to feel like she wants to miss the actual death, too. Maybe we are more alike than I realize. If she does come home I wonder what she’ll make of the guests.

Drake is alternating bites of toast with slurping sips of milk when I enter the bedroom. It seems that the counterpane covering my father lies a little flatter each day. Niobe kneels Japanese style on a pillow on the floor. It keeps the tail out of her way. I give her shoulder a grateful squeeze as I move past. My dad lifts his hand. I take it and kiss his forehead.

“Thank you, you’ve brought me the most delightful nurse and assistant.”

He smiles at Niobe and Drake, revealing crooked teeth, legacy of a lifetime of British dentistry. I wonder how he appears to her. Nothing remarkable, medium height, gray-brown hair, neither handsome nor ugly, a deeply lined face from a lifetime of invalidism, but, like Niobe, he has wonderful eyes. Niobe blushes. She looks rather adorable.

“The state nurse is coming,” I say to Dad. “I thought I’d show Niobe and Drake about a little.”

“Go, go,” he urges, shoving at me with the back of his hand. It’s stippled with dark bruises from the IV needles.

Out in the hall Drake makes a face. “Are you gonna, like, walk around?”

“Probably,” I lie because I want to have Niobe to myself.

“Can I stay here and use the computer? I could play WoW.”

“No! Use the Game Boy, but don’t go online.” Drake looks mulish as only a teenage boy can. Niobe hugs him and ruffles his hair.

“Come on, kiddo, I know it feels like we’re safe, but we’re not, not really.”

I feel a stab of regret and resentment that I can’t make her feel secure. But reason reasserts itself. In truth they’re not safe.

I take her out the back door, across the swale of grass, and through the gate in the hedge. The Cam rolls slowly past, the color of caramel. We keep a punt pulled up onto the muddy bank. I squelch across to the punt. Leaves have gathered in the bottom, and I realize how long it’s been since I’ve had it out on the water. I toss some of them out, and hold out my hand to Niobe.

She’s hesitating, staring down at the mud. I realize there is a tear in the side of one of her tennis shoes, and it’s the only pair of shoes she possesses. I need to buy them some changes of clothes. I pick her up and carry her across the mud. There’s a sharp intake of breath as my arms go around her followed by a squeak as I swing her up. Her tail thrashes a bit against my leg as I carry her, the bristly hairs penetrate the fabric of my slacks.

“Is this okay?”

“Y-yes.”

I deposit her in the punt and arrange pillows behind her back. A sharp push and the punt slides into the water. I jump in. Niobe squeaks again as the punt rocks a bit under my weight.

“Pardon me, not trying to be fresh,” I say as I reach down next to her leg and pull free the long wooden pole, and step onto the platform at the end of the boat. I like to punt. There is something both relaxing and empowering as you time the push, let the pole slide through your hands, pull it up and thrust again.

She leans back, exposing the line of her neck. My eyes linger on the hollow at the base of her throat. She opens her eyes and smiles at me. “You’re a fibber,” she says.

“Guilty.”

“Drake could have come.”

“Yes, but I didn’t want him to come.”

She’s blushing again. “Why?” Her color deepens even more. “Oh, I’m sorry, that sounds like I’m angling.”

“I wanted to spend time with you.”

Her face is almost scarlet, but those amazing eyes fill with delight.

“Really?”

“Truly.”

We’re only gone for an hour, but I’m straining toward the house, feeling like I can’t quite draw in enough air to satisfy my lungs. I realize I’m outdistancing Niobe, the tail makes her clumsy, and I moderate the length and speed of my steps. I feel I owe her an explanation. “I feel guilty when I go away. When it’s just for me, not work.”

She catches me by gently touching my arm. “You have to take time for yourself or you can’t be there for him. Not when he’ll really need you there.”

“But he may not know I’m there. Not when . . .” I clear my throat. “The time comes.”

“He’ll know.” She lays a hand on her breast. “Souls yearn to each other when people care for each other.”

I’m roused by the soft murmur of voices and running water. The glowing green numbers seem suspended in the darkness. Three A.M. Niobe is in Dad’s room. She supports him in one arm while with her free hand she spreads another urine pad beneath him. Our eyes meet over his head. I take the shell of his body in my arms as Niobe straightens the sheet and plumps up the pillows.

The mattress dips on one side. I wake, startled, disoriented. My hand is reaching for the pistol suspended on the side of the bed. The heavy aroma of coffee reassures me. Niobe is seated on the edge of my bed, a tray in her hands. A right proper breakfast adorns the plate. The yolks of the eggs look almost orange against the white china, but all I really see is her smile.

The first one to go was the Committee’s pager. Next Bahir’s. I called my agent and had him cancel my upcoming performances. Another pager down. The last one to go is the pager from the Silver Helix. As I press and hold down the button and watch the lights dim to darkness I realize I’m not even feeling very guilty. It joins the other four in the desk drawer.

A gale off the North Sea moans around the house. It whistles down the chimney and captured sparks whirl away back up the flue. Startled, Niobe looks up from her book, The Nine Tailors—I approve of her taste. She is curled up in a nest of pillows that supports her and keeps her tail from making her too uncomfortable. Her hair falls across one side of her face, polished chestnut. I’m seated in my father’s favorite chair, shoulder pressed into one of the wings, reading. The fabric is redolent with the smell of tobacco and his aftershave. But a new scent is in the room—lilies and jasmine. I had found the unopened bottle in the bathroom. I remembered when I had bought it for my mother at a boutique in Paris while on tour. That had been three years ago. Well, it’s Niobe’s now.

The wind shrieks, a sudden, sharp cry. I know why my ancestors created the legend of banshees and lost souls. I picture my father’s soul spinning away into that maelstrom of clouds. I wonder if the souls of all the men I’ve killed are wandering tonight. The close and constant presence of death has made me fanciful. Niobe shivers, and rubs at her arms.

Setting aside my book—Three Men in a Boat—I hurry to her side, and rub her upper arms. The skin is pimpled with goose bumps. She’s still in the T-shirt I found her in. I still haven’t bought her . . . them, clothes. But shopping would take me away from the house.

“You poor darling, let me get you a sweater. It’ll swim on you, my mother is . . . large.” She is smiling up at me. There’s nothing conscious or planned about it. I bend down and kiss her. Her lips are dry, and a little chapped. For an instant they part. She tastes like vanilla and honey. Then she draws back. I, too, rear back. “Sorry, sorry. I don’t usually behave like an ass.”

At the same time I’m sputtering the apology she is saying, “Wha . . . what are you doing? What do you want my kids for? Why do you want me to have a clutch? You’re up to something!”

I’m completely at sea here. I wave my hands in front of her face. “Stop, stop, stop. It was just a kiss. If I wanted to seduce you I’d bloody well do it better than this.”

She clambers awkwardly to her feet. “Bullshit! This whole thing has been a seduction. The punting, the tea and crumpets, everything!” Her voice is spiraling into a tight, high soprano, and the words come like the chattering of gulls. “Well, I’ve got news for you, I can’t just whip up a clutch with the powers you want!”

“I say, hold on there! I’m sterile, remember.”

“Not with me you wouldn’t be. Not for my ace kids.” Her face is a bright red. “Just the act of sex starts it.”

Well, that stops me. “I could sire children?” My mind juxtaposes images of fathers at playgrounds with youngsters and the dying homunculus in the alley, but I can’t quell the buzz of excitement. “I wouldn’t be sterile with you.” I thrust my hands deep into my pockets and feel the pressure of a half-formed erection.

“You really wanted to kiss me?” She sounds very young and very insecure.

I turn back to her. “Yes.”

“But I’m ugly.”

“And I’m grotesque.” I force a smile. “I might get the kiss, but once my pants come off I get the kiss-off.”

“It can’t be more horrible than this.” She gathers the fat, bristly tail into her arms and stares down at it. “I’m sorry I got so weird. I just haven’t been kissed in a long, long time. He never kissed me at BICC. He just fucked me.” I can barely hear her now. “He never stayed to see the kids. He never came to say good-bye to them when they . . . when they . . .” Her voice is thick with unshed tears.

I take her in my arms and this time she doesn’t pull back.

They’re absolutely delightful. Four. Three girls and a cocky imp of a boy. It amazed me how quickly it happened after we made love, and alarmed me how much pain Niobe endured. I held her as the eggs were deposited and we watched together as they hatched.

The black-haired, blue-eyed boy clambers up onto the bed and gives Niobe a hug. “Hi, Mom.” She hugs him back fiercely.

Two of the girls join us on the bed. The joker is tiny and having trouble with the big four-poster. I pick her up and set her on the bed. She’s charming. She’s like those pewter and enameled figurines of fairies with shimmering translucent wings that flash in the sun like an opal, feathery antenna over her eyes, and pointed little ears that poke up through a profusion of lavender-colored hair.

Niobe is looking distressed. “I can’t remember. I think I was up to ‘D.’ ”

I remembered something from the reports from BICC, how they worked their way through the alphabet so they could keep the test subjects straight. My spine stiffens.

“No, these are our kids. We get to name them.” She looks frightened, then delight brightens her face and shines in her eyes. She looks up at me shyly, her arms are full of children. “You should name your son.”

I feel taller and broader and I realize I’m preening like a bantam cock. “Gabriel.”

Niobe nods in agreement, but Gabriel pipes up. “You better not call me Gabe.”

I give a bark of laughter. Niobe kisses the dark hair of two of the girls. “Delia and Bethany.”

I pick up my delicate princess. “And Iolante.” Her arms go around my neck. “Let’s go show your grandfather,” I say.