Liar (16 page)

“Horace now asked his father to welcome him home as his only remaining son, and to remove the princess. This angered the king, who cut Horace out of his will. He saw to it that the princess had the best of care. He was overjoyed when the princess gave birth to a little girl, and was especially pleased when she named her new daughter Gwendolyn, after his late and much beloved queen.

“Again tragedy struck, and there are those who will tell you that this one disordered the old king’s mind. The king and the princess traveled to the east, so that the princess might see her family, and to show them the fair Gwendolyn. And while they were there, a plague struck, the worst in five hundred years.”

“The influenza epidemic?” I asked.

“Yes. Do you know about it?”

“Not much,” I admitted.

“Twenty-one million people died because of it-more than twice the number killed in World War I. So many died in Washington and Baltimore, they ran out of coffins.”

“Sounds as if you’ve studied about it,” I said.

He smiled. “My father told me about it. He lies about a great many things, of course, but I checked up on this.”

His use of the present tense was not lost on me, or on Rachel. We exchanged a look of dismay.

“Oh, I know a son shouldn’t speak ill of his father,” Travis said, misreading it, “but I know you’ll hardly blame me, Irene.”

“Forget about that,” Rachel said quickly. “I want to hear the rest of the story you were telling. They went back east and caught the flu.”

“Yes. All three of them. But despite his age, the king survived, and despite her youth, Gwendolyn did as well. But the poor princess did not. Heartbroken, the king left the east as quickly as he could, and came back to his castle. He loved Gwendolyn, but his protectiveness of this new little princess became extreme. He rarely allowed anyone else near her. A few governesses, a housekeeper or two.

“She grew into a woman, but since her grandfather believed all men to be fortune hunters, he did not allow her into their company. He forever saw her as much younger than she was. She did not mind this protection; she had known it all her life. She was extremely shy of other people, most especially men.

“But one day, when she was outside, sitting in her garden, she saw a big snake sleeping in the sun. Frightened, she cried out, awakening the snake. But a boy who was working nearby heard her, and hurried to help her. He removed the snake from the garden, then went back to see if she had been bitten or harmed in anyway. She told him she was not, but even though he was only twelve, he could see the princess-whom he thought quite silly-was shaken.

“The boy began to tell her a story, one that made the shy princess laugh, and when he had finished, the princess asked him to tell her another. He told her one, and then another, and so it went, until the boy’s brother-who was much older than the boy-called to him that it was time to go.

“She begged the boy to return to her, and he did. When the king died four years later, the princess was very lonely, and soon married the only male who had ever formed an attachment to her.”

He paused, then said, “There are those that would tell you that she was safer with the snake, and maybe they are right. But they do not think, perhaps, of the boy being only a young man of sixteen, and of her, however shy, being over forty. Perhaps it was the boy who would have been better off with the snake.

“What is certain, however, is that one should not ignore the advice of sparrows, for everything the king most feared came true.”

We had reached Las Piernas by then and he asked for directions. I made a decision. He didn’t like me much, and the easiest thing would have been to take him to Mary’s house, to leave everything on her shoulders.

“Take the next exit,” I said, ignoring Rachel’s look of surprise.

I was as much a Maguire as I was a Kelly. It was time to stop letting my father’s prejudices ruin any chance of getting closer to my cousin. I just hoped God found that funny enough to laugh himself into a good mood.

I was surprised when we were able to find a parking space in front of the house; it was the only one available on our block. We live near the beach, and at that time of year, as the weather was warming, the crowds were showing up.

I took Rachel aside and gave her the keys to the Volvo, asking her to give me some time alone with Travis. She hesitated, then relented. She told me to give her a call if I needed help. When he saw that she was leaving, Travis protested that he had promised to pay for a rental car, but she told him not to worry about it. “Just spend some time getting to know your cousin,” she said. “You might find out she’s not so bad.”

He made a face that looked like the warm-up for a sarcastic reply, then caught her disapproving glance. “Will we see you later?” he asked.

She promised she’d be back.

I stalled for a while, introducing him to our pets, showing him the house, feeding him lunch outside on the patio. The dogs took a liking to him and lay on the lawn, watching him. Cody reserved judgment, and busied himself rolling around in a patch of mint that Frank had planted for him.

I answered Travis’s questions about Frank, Pete and Rachel, none of which seemed to be designed to elicit more than small talk. He steered the topic of conversation away from himself, so I stopped asking questions, too anxious about coming up with a way to break the news about his parents to worry much over his reticence. I decided I would make a determined effort to discover more about him later. For the time being, I tried to learn what I could from what he chose to ask me. I suppose I learned more from what he didn’t ask.

He didn’t ask about me or Barbara. I told myself there was no reason to feel hurt over that, that he was a stranger. But he wasn’t.

And yet, what was there to bind him to us? I began to feel sure that as soon as I told him of his parents’ deaths, he would flee. It seemed to me that would be yet another loss, another unnecessary separation in our family saga of indifference. I wanted it to stop.

“I was wondering,” I said, “if you could stay a few days?”

He didn’t try to hide his surprise. “Here? With you?”

“Yes. In the guest bedroom.”

He stared at me a moment, and I half-expected one of his sarcastic replies. But he shook his head and said, “No, I’ve got my camper. It’s all I need-I prefer it, really.”

As if on cue, we were interrupted by a loud noise-a series of whoops and honking sounds-a car alarm. He was up on his feet and hurrying through the house. I followed him, but by the time we reached the front yard, there was no one near the pickup. He pressed a button on his key-chain and the noise subsided.

“Think someone tried to break into it?” I asked.

He glanced around and shrugged. “Hard to know. It isn’t one of those that goes off every time the wind blows, but I’ve had more than one false alarm from it.”

“There’s a stairway to the beach at the end of the street,” I said, “so a lot of beachgoers walk past the house. Maybe someone walking by was curious about ‘Cosmo the Storyteller.”“

He smiled, “Remarking on the paint job?”

“It is designed to grab attention, right?”

“Right.” He glanced between the camper and the house and said, “Mind if I move a couple of things into the house for safekeeping?”

“Not at all. But as I was saying, why don’t you stay?”

“No need to,” he said, walking to the back of the camper. “I have a place to sleep.”

“Well, then, stay here in your camper.”

“Why?” he asked suspiciously.

“Maybe we could get to know each other.”

He laughed as he opened the camper door. “Same question: why?”

I waited while he stepped into the camper and retrieved the rolling trunk. When I suggested he put it in the guest room, he seemed amused, but did as I asked.

We went back out on the patio.

“You asked why I wanted you to stay,” I said. “What happened-between our parents-it wasn’t right.”

“Oh? So we should suddenly become cousins? Real cousins? Just ignore the past few decades of neglect?” He shook his head. “You Kellys are unbelievable.”

“I’m as much a Maguire as you are!”

“Forgive me for saying so, but so what?”

“Do we have to perpetuate something our parents started? Make it worse?”

“Why start with me? Go ask my mother’s forgiveness, not mine. God knows Mom has always been more interested in you than I am. In fact, the last time I saw her, she told me she was going to cut me out of her will in your favor. Even showed it to me.” He laughed. “Some day you’ll be the proud owner of a couple of religious statues and a dozen or so Georgette Heyer novels.”

Well, that shut me right up.

“What?” he asked, seeing my dismay.

“I’ve tried to think of a way to tell you this,” I said miserably.

He stared hard at me.

I drew a breath. “When your mother called you at the Mission Viejo Library, did you call her back?”

“No,” he said warily. “But what business is that of yours?”

“I think she called to tell you about your father,” I began. “Was-was he ill?”

“Yes,” he answered, then his eyes widened.
“Was
…?” he repeated, then said, “Not already! It’s too soon! He’s… he’s not… he died?”

“Yes.”

All the color left his face. He lowered his head, exhaled loudly. He made no other sound for several long minutes. But then, as the shock seemed to wear off, he stood up, fists clenched. His face, so pale just moments ago, was now flushed with rage. “I can’t believe it!” he said angrily. “I can’t believe she-she asked you to tell me-”

“She didn’t!” I said quickly.

“You just took it upon yourself? Why on earth-”

“Because… maybe you should sit down again.”

“No,” he said, narrowing his eyes at me, as if trying to read my mind. “Something’s happened-what’s wrong?”

“Travis, I’m sorry, I’m-so sorry to have to tell you this, but your mother was in a car accident and-”

“She’s hurt? Where is she?”

I shook my head. “She was killed, Travis.”

“Killed?” he said blankly, as if it had become a foreign word. “Killed?”

I nodded.

“By a car?” Still unable to grasp it.

“She was crossing a street…” I said, but trailed off as I saw his face twist up with grief. “Oh, Travis-” I reached out toward him.

“No!” he said.

He turned his back to me, took a faltering step, then sat down hard in the chair. He brought his knees up, sitting sideways, curling himself up in the chair, hiding his head in his arms. “No, not her. Not her,” he said, again and again, until he began sobbing too hard to say it.

The dogs had gingerly stepped onto the deck by then, and stood with hips leaning against my knees in what I took to be some sort of pack formation against danger, their ears forward and watching him with concern. Deke looked back at me, then ventured forward first, sniffing at his shoes and singing a single, high-pitched note of anxious sympathy to him. I was going to call her back, but he reached for her and held on to her soft black coat, and soon Dunk was also sidling in to offer whatever comfort he could.

I started to go inside the house, to give him some privacy, but turned back at the last moment, unwilling to let the dogs be smarter than I was, deciding that the family stubbornness that had pitted the two of us against one another might be put to better use.

The dogs moved away as I knelt next to him. I put an arm around his shoulders. He stiffened. I half expected him to tell me to go to hell, but instead he tentatively took hold of my hand, then squeezed it tightly, not letting go. After a time, he shifted in the chair, uncurling enough to put his head on my shoulder, and we held on to one another until this first wave of grief was exhausted.

He quieted, then pulled away awkwardly and went into the house without saying anything to me. I stretched and got up off my sore knees, waited a minute or two, then followed him in, dogs trailing. I heard the sound of the bathroom tap running, and figured he was washing his face. I went into the kitchen, busying myself with wiping off the counter and rinsing the dishes from lunch.

He hadn’t come out yet by the time I finished, so I sat on the couch and waited for him. Cody took advantage of this time to lie on my lap, splaying paws and purring loudly as I scratched the particular place under his chin that cannot receive enough attention.

Eventually Travis came into the living room. He seated himself on the couch, but as far away from me as possible. Staring at the empty fireplace, he said, “Tell me what you know.”

“About the accident?”

“Whatever you know about-what happened to my parents.”

I began by talking about his father’s death, because he seemed to have known of Arthur’s illness. “I don’t know much,” I said, “only what was on the death certificate.”

“He had cancer,” Travis said quietly.

“Yes, that was listed as the cause of death.”

After a moment, he said, “I guess you know something about that. Mom told me about your mother.”

“My father, too,” I said.

“Really? Patrick died of cancer?” he said, with a kind of mild curiosity, as if I had just told him that we had graduated from the same high school.

“Yes. In fact, the doctor who treated your dad was my dad’s doctor.”

He didn’t react to that. He seemed to be caught up in some distant memory. After a long silence, he said, “Mom used to tell me this story about you. That you held me when I was a baby.”

“Yes,” I said, hoping to God he wouldn’t ask me to talk about it just then.

He seemed to sense that, though, and said, “What happened to my mother?”

I tried to be gentle in the telling, but the facts of the matter were like axes, and couldn’t be used for fine work. After a time he again grew very pale, held up a hand, then murmured, “Excuse me.”