CHAPTER 7
Magali
Halloween
I was removing my witch hat and untying my cape when the doorbell rang. The kids were finally in bed, so much corn syrup coursing through their little bodies, I was sure they’d be up with nightmares and a headache tomorrow.
Nine-thirty. A bit late for trick-or-treaters.
“Trick or treat!”
A six-foot-tall masked Mad Hatter stood on my porch. An adult. Every year there was one or two. Talk about not ever wanting to grow up.
His costume was nicely put together. I grabbed a few fun-size candies and looked for his bag of goodies to drop them in.
“Actually,” he said, “I could really go for a beer and maybe some of that great pumpkin bread you always bake at Halloween.”
“Art!” I flung myself at him, almost knocking him over.
“Nice to see I haven’t been forgotten.” He hugged me back.
“You dope.”
“Dope? I see having kids has really transformed your vocabulary. How sophisticated.”
I grabbed my brother’s hand and pulled him inside. “You have no idea. I could have called you poopy pants, though we do discourage the use of scatological terms. Leo, look who’s here!”
“Let me guess.” Leo was using his plummy voice, the one he reserved for children. “Darth Vader? Ariel?” He came into the living room wearing a mask and cape, the Lancôme eyebrow-pencil moustache he’d drawn smudged on the left side.
“If it isn’t the Mad Hatter,” said Leo.
“See you’re keeping up with tradition. Zorro again.” Art grinned.
“What you don’t get is that these are my actual street clothes. It’s when I’m a lawyer that I’m in disguise.” He lifted one end of his cape.
They went through that slap-on-the-back-bro-dude thing guys do to show how manly they are.
Art removed the tall purple hat.
“You look great.” It was true. Beneath the kaleidoscopic suit, my brother looked healthy and strong.
Tomorrow I was going to start working out.
Art threw his arm around my shoulder. He towered over all of us, even Leo, who was a respectable six feet tall. Someone who didn’t know us would be hard-pressed to guess we were siblings. Art, like Jacqueline, took after Daddy’s side of the family, while Colette and I resembled our mother. The only thing that linked us physically was the blue of our eyes.
“The place looks beautiful,” said Art. I realized we were still standing in the foyer.
“And those cobwebs? Real! Come in. Sit.”
He sank into the deep red sofa. When I’d seen my sister’s sofa in her Brussels apartment, I’d fallen in love and couldn’t rest until I’d found one of my own. Though, the last time I saw hers, it was still in pristine condition.
“So you like my new décor? The island of broken toys mixed with stain du jour.” I waved my hand and almost knocked over a burning candle. I caught it just before it toppled.
He laughed. “It all looks good to me.”
True that with the candles lit, our ceramic jack-o-lanterns glowing on the mantel, two vases of pumpkin bouquets, one round, one square, and our not-so-wicked witch and cauldron, it looked cozy rather than spooky.
Big as he was, Art looked comfortable accepting a beer from Leo. I’d never seen him this at ease in his own skin.
“Have you eaten?” I got to my feet.
“Yeah, I had something earlier.”
“How much earlier? Let me grab some cheese to go with the beer.” I was already halfway to the kitchen.
“Gali, come back and sit down. I’m here to see you.”
“I’ll only be a sec.”
“I forgot, I’m in the house of continuous feeding.”
I needed a couple of minutes to figure out how to get Art to come back for Christmas. I needed a plan. Subterfuge. Scheming. Come on brain, I thought. Jacqueline, where are you when I need you most?
I grabbed a Petit Basque, a ubiquitous brie, and a lovely chunk of aged Chimay cheese—I’d been delighted to discover that the cheese, as well as the beer, was now being exported. I added grapes and walnuts and was back in the living room before I could figure something out. Maybe use the kids? Low, but it might work.
“. . . finished up my latest assignment for the agency.”
“And now?” asked Leo. He’d removed his mask and cape, but the mustache still graced his upper lip.
“Ah, my next incarnation.” You never knew with Art. “The pay was great. I stuck a bunch of money into an account. That’s kind of why I’m here. I want you to take care of it for me.” He helped himself to some cheese.
“What’s up?” My brother, Mr. Independence, I-don’t-need-anyone-but-myself asking for help?
He swallowed. “This is great. Thanks.” He drank some beer. “The thing is, I’m going away for a little while.”
“Wow, that’s huge. Really. Wait till I tell Colette and Jacqueline. The shock wave will be felt worldwide.” I turned to my husband. “Leo, better call Al Gore.”
He helped himself to some of the Chimay. “Only you would have Belgian cheese in the fridge.”
Leo had poured me a nice glass of Crozes-Hermitage. I took a sip. “So, not exactly a news flash. Now hanging around, on the other hand.”
“I’ve decided to write a book—”
“A book! You?” I spilled some wine on my shirt. Good thing it was black.
Even I heard my voice swerve into the panic lane. The guys looked at me oddly. Everyone, just everyone, was writing a book: Ana, now Art. A small voice that was Charlotte’s age and level of maturity screamed inside my head, Don’t they know this is your dream they’re stealing? What’s wrong with these people?
“Yeah, why should you be the only author in the family? Here.” He handed me a napkin.
“I’m hardly an author.” Yet. I dabbed the stain.
“And if you don’t believe her, ask your father.”
Art’s eyes flickered. He sidled up next to me on the couch. “Don’t you know how wonderful they are? Your books. Here, let me show you.”
He disappeared into the foyer and came back with his old rucksack. Opening it, he pulled out one, two . . . four beat-up books, tattered, clearly read, reread, and loved. Every author’s dream.
They were mine.
I drained my glass of wine and stuffed some cheese into my mouth, without tasting either.
He shrugged. “When I miss you . . .”
“You cook?” I managed to ask.
“Not that much. But, you’d be surprised.”
“Don’t steal my thunder,” I mock-reprimanded. “I’m the chef in the family.” And the writer.
“Anyway, you help people—don’t argue. Reading them is like coming home and having a great conversation with you.”
“So, you’re going off to write a book?”
“Looking for my own Walden Pond, maybe. It makes sense. I have tons of photos. I want to pull it all together with a strong narrative.” He looked so happy, I almost keeled over from the force.
An idea blossomed. “Art, stay here and write it. Please. We’ve got tons of room.”
I looked at Leo, who nodded. “Yeah, dude.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” He cocked his head to the side.
“You dope.”
“Again with the dope? I’ll chip in by doing yard work. And lots of photos of the kiddos in action.”
I hadn’t seen Leo look so happy since two years ago when I found a handyman to do all the little jobs around the house. He got up from the armchair and pulled me up, then kissed me. “I love your brother.”
“Me too.” This almost felt too easy. He’d be here for Christmas. Sometimes, I guess the universe could cut me a break.
My brother stood and put his hand on my shoulder. “Just one thing: don’t tell anyone I’m here, okay?”
“Anyone?”
He looked me straight in the eyes. “Anyone. Meaning our father.”
Figured.