Night was falling, the last they would all spend together under this roof. There was no formal dinner. People took what they wanted from the kitchen. Laurena and Cynthia sat at the table and gossiped. Miranda and her brothers stayed holed up in the old man’s room, long after Dave left. Kenny and Audrey shot pool. Teresa worked feverishly in her room. From memory, not her preferred method, but she wanted no witnesses in case she needed to destroy the result. Her marks were quick and sure for someone so out of practice. Her fingers cramped around the pencil, but it felt good to be working. She stared at the sketch awhile, then went to look for James. He was not in his room, or on the lawn, or in the wine cellar. If he had gone into the pines, Teresa was not following him there in darkness. Then she thought of the attic.
The stairs were at the back of the house. She had not been up in years and could not remember where the switch was, but there was just enough light to see. Modest bedrooms lined one side of a narrow passage. Servants’ quarters. There was a storage area and at the far end an unfinished room that had been intended as a studio. From the stairs, Teresa could see a light within. She did not call out, but went quietly to the door. James sat on the floor, or what there was of one. Some spots were just exposed insulation. His back was against a wooden beam, and his face averted. Beside him was a candlestick from the dining room with a lit taper.
“Mind if I join you?” she asked.
“No,” he replied without enthusiasm. “Careful of the floor.”
She made her cautious way to him and sat down.
“This is where you’ve been hiding out, huh?”
“Sometimes.” He rubbed his palm over his knee. “They sealed up that place in the cellar.”
“I know. Audrey was outraged.”
“Audrey?” He looked at her in surprise. “What’s it got to do with her?”
“You showed it to her once, I guess.”
“I did?” He went away in thought. “I didn’t remember.”
“I made this for you,” she said, handing him the small sketch. He stared a long time at the loose, impressionistic version of his face. The swiftness of her lines made him look slightly unhinged, Teresa noticed, and nearly stole the page back.
“It’s not very good,” she said anxiously. “I haven’t worked in months. I don’t know why. I just haven’t felt the urge.”
“No,” he murmured. “No, it’s wonderful. It’s the grown-up me.”
“I guess it is.”
“I almost didn’t recognize myself. This is great. Thank you, Tay.”
“Don’t thank me. I should thank you, I get very few requests for my services. I’ll do better next time.”
“Maybe a real portrait?” he said, smiling hopefully at her. “With paints and everything? This can be the preliminary sketch.”
“Only if you wear a lab coat and stethoscope,” she said, trying to laugh off the idea. “Are you happy to be leaving? To get back to school?”
“I don’t know. Are you?”
“I’m not escaping so easily. I’ll need a leave of absence to deal with the collection.”
“Shall I stay and help?” he asked, taking her hand. Sounding neither eager nor hesitant. Just serious. Always so serious. His hand was large and a little clammy. It made her think of Dave Webster’s warm, steady grasp. She leaned her head on James’ shoulder.
“That’s a sweet offer, but I’m not sure what you could do. I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to do.”
“I could keep you company. We could talk about things.”
“Family stuff?”
“No,” James said. “Paintings. Old paintings.”
“What about them?”
“How they were made, and preserved. Or restored. How they’re understood.”
How demons get into them, Teresa thought, but she refused to tease him.
“I know you know those things,” he pressed, squeezing her hand. “And in your spare time you can work on my portrait.”
“You have to get back to school. Medicine is serious, you can’t miss classes.”
“Do you ever wonder?” James said in a different tone. Sadder. “Do you wonder what our lives would be like if Grandpa never bought the Goya?”
“Well,” she said, searching for an honest reply, “I don’t know if I’ve thought of it like that. I wonder about the theft. How things might have gone differently that day if I didn’t get sick. I wonder about my dad. Why he left, what we could have done to make him stay.”
“None of it is your fault,” James said urgently. “You mustn’t think that. You couldn’t help getting sick, and your father... It wasn’t his fault either. He had a high resistance to the painting, but that only got him into more trouble. He was always in there looking at it. Both of them. In that room conspiring, remember?”
Remember what? she almost said. She only knew of Ramón’s obsession secondhand, but then a vision pushed in upon her. The two of them, James and Teresa, standing outside the study. Sweaty hands clasped, like now. Very close to the door, listening to the men talk inside. It was not a unique memory. They had stood there several times. They had heard many scary and fascinating things. It was almost certainly the source of what she knew of the painting and its history. The source of James’ strange—and strangely familiar—tale the other night. How the hell could she have forgotten? Yet she had, completely, until now.
“Anyway, it started before,” James continued. “From the time Grandpa got ahold of the work. It warped our parents. Made them greedy and frightened people. It killed that man, that art historian. It made my mother not want to live, and it made Grandma say cruel things. Things she never would have said before. It changed us all.”
His hand was gripping hers painfully now, but she would not pull free. Would not abandon him. Nor would she accept his words blindly.
“The painting changed our lives, but it didn’t change us,” Teresa said. “It only brought out the worst. It made us more what we already were.”
“No,” he seethed, shaking his hand loose as if hers was on fire. “That’s not right. That’s not right at all.”
“James.” There was nothing to say. She could listen, she could try to draw him out, but she could not indulge dangerous fantasies. “I’m sorry.”
The stairs at the end of the hall creaked. Loudly, then again more softly. Someone was coming up. They froze. Like two terrified children in a horror movie. Not snuffing the candle, not hiding, just sitting there, numbly awaiting the monster. A dark form with spectral white hair slipped in the doorway and stopped.
“We’re crashing your party,” slurred Audrey. She held a glass of blood-dark wine, and the guttering candle made her face jump. Kenny stood behind her, sipping a beer and gazing about the room.
“I don’t remember this place.”
“You’ve never been up here,” James said bitterly. Implying that they should not be here now.
Audrey took a careless step onto the spongy insulation, and would have fallen on her face if Kenny had not grabbed her. She shook off his hand with a shiver of anger.
“You’re welcome,” Kenny said.
They stepped carefully to where the other two sat, forming an awkward ring about the low flame. Audrey passed the wineglass, and Teresa took a deep drink. The taste was earthy and potent. James had a slug of Kenny’s beer. He did not want it, but that didn’t matter. There was a ritual quality to it. As if they were swearing an oath, without words.
“You two figuring things out?” Audrey asked, tugging a pack of cigarettes from Kenny’s shirt pocket.
“You can’t smoke in the house,” said James automatically.
“Why not?” Audrey scoffed, lighting up. “You think Grandma’s ghost is going to come scold me?”
“Serve you right if she did,” Kenny said. But he took the cigarette when she passed it.
“What are we supposed to be figuring out?” Teresa asked.
“So many things,” Audrey said breathily. “Did you like Dave?”
“Who’s Dave?” asked James.
“The guy my dad hired,” Kenny answered gloomily. “With the broken nose.”
“He seemed nice,” Teresa said.
“Nice,” Audrey spat. “He’s not nice. You better watch out for him, little girl.”
“You think?” Teresa took the cigarette from Kenny and had a pull. Then blew the smoke in a narrow jet at Audrey. “That’s funny, because we made a date.”
Audrey’s face went rigid. Then relaxed slowly into a smile.
“Lying bitch,” she said proudly. “I’m just saying, he’s dangerous.”
“What was he doing here?” James asked.
“Supposedly investigating the theft of the painting,” Audrey informed them. “He’s the same guy Grandpa hired.”
“No,” Teresa said in disbelief. “He’s not old enough.”
“Pushing forty,” Audrey replied, stealing back the cigarette. “He was working for his father-in-law back then. That’s how he got the case. Truth is, Philip’s just paying him to say stuff to my dad and your mother.”
“What stuff?” Kenny asked sharply.
“Do we want to talk about this?”
“Talk about what?” Teresa asked.
“He knows,” said Audrey.
There was silence while the elder cousins stared each other down.
“Say whatever you want,” Kenny replied.
“Grandpa thought that Philip stole the painting,” Audrey said, softly enough that Teresa had to lean in to catch the words. “That’s why he was left out of the will. Philip is paying Dave to say he didn’t do it. Or something like that.”
“Why?”
“So they’ll agree to join him in a suit. For the property. The three of them have to act together to have a chance.”
Kenny had no reaction, which could only mean...
“You did know,” Teresa said.
“Know what?” he snapped. “That the old man thought it? Yeah, he told me. In our little chat on Saturday. But it’s bullshit. My father never would have done that to him.”
“Of course,” Teresa agreed. Not knowing what to believe. It certainly did not sound like Philip, but their grandfather must have had reason to think so.
“And my dad is obvious,” Audrey continued. “He’s blown all his money so many times that Grandpa just figured, you know, why give him more? Which leaves your mother,” she added, pointing the cigarette at Teresa.
Who said nothing at first. It was odd to know something Audrey did not, and Teresa had only heard it an hour earlier. Her mother claimed not to know the reasons, but she had somehow learned that her brothers were cut off. Maybe her father told her, maybe Ilsa had. Miranda informed the old man that if Philip and Freddie got nothing, she would prefer to get nothing, as well. Clearly, he had honored her request. Just as clearly, no one but Teresa would believe it. They would call it a self-serving fairy tale by Miranda.
“She was pretty wild when she was young,” Teresa said. “So maybe it’s the same as your dad. Grandpa thought she would waste it. Or maybe it just seemed more fair to make it a clean sweep.”
Audrey nodded, satisfied with the lie.
“So much for them. What about us?”
“I’m not playing,” said Kenny, finishing his beer with a long swallow.
James got up and went to the window, forcing it open with a loud squeak. He crouched before it, breathing the night air. Audrey shook her head at both of them, mashing the cigarette out on a floorboard. Then she looked at Teresa.
“How about it, Teresita? Some kind of brain surgery? A mental health screening to prove you’re not nuts?”
“Jesus, Audie,” said Kenny in disgust.
“Yes,” Teresa said, staring back at her witchy cousin. Unblinking, voice steady. “That’s about right. You?”
“I was guessing. You can do the same, can’t you?”
“A dry-out clinic in the desert, maybe?”
“That’s about right,” Audrey replied, then emptied the wine in one gulp.
“Drugs?” Kenny asked. “Booze? Bestiality?”
“It’s a three-in-one deal,” Audrey shot back. “You still not playing?”
“Nope.”
“Fine,” Audrey said, leaning toward him aggressively. “But answer me this, you big pussy. Whatever it is you won’t tell us, are you going to do it to get your money?”
There was that adolescent rage again, twisting Kenny’s pretty face. Another vision intruded on Teresa’s mind. The four of them swimming by the bridge. Audrey teasing Kenny. Yelling, slapping, then Kenny twisting Audrey’s hair in his fist and holding her head underwater for too long. Teresa and James had to scream at him to let go, and Audrey emerged pale and choking. Had there been other incidents over the years? Could that hidden temper be connected to Grandpa’s instructions? The condition too shameful for Kenny to name?
Instead of striking his cousin, Kenny slapped the empty beer bottle, which flew to the center of the room and spun. They all watched until it came to a stop, pointing at Audrey.
“So?” she asked coyly. “You going to kiss me?”
“Pass,” he grumbled, the anger dissipating.
“Wouldn’t be the first time. I won’t stick my tongue down your throat.”
“Please,” groaned Teresa, “do I have to know this?”
“Come on,” Audrey laughed. “We were, like, thirteen. You have to learn somehow.”
“No,” Kenny said with a hard finality. “To answer your question, I’m not doing what he asked. I tore up the letter. Unlike others in this room, I don’t need the money that badly.”
Though she knew he meant Audrey, Teresa felt her cheeks burn. Student loans, sketchy employment. Graduate school was on scholarship, but there was no stipend. She could really use the money. But it was impossible.
Audrey bit her thumbnail, as Teresa had seen her do when the wheels of calculation were turning.
“You made it sound like we would never see that money,” Audrey noted. “Won’t it get tied up in probate or something?”
“I’m guessing neither side will contest the grants to the grandchildren,” Kenny explained. “Yeah, it could take a while, but you’ll need that money just as much in six months or a year. Maybe more.”
Audrey rolled onto her hip and pulled the folded envelope out of her back pocket. Teresa nearly laughed, as her letter was in exactly the same place. None of them were going to leave the incriminating words lying around.
“I need it, sure.” Audrey unfolded the envelope and slid the letter out. “But I’ll be damned if I’m going to be blackmailed by a dead man.” She glanced at the note once more, then extended her arm until the corner of the paper met the candle flame. It took a moment to catch, but soon the creamy sheet flared to life, illuminating the dim corners of the room. The letter curled and blackened, vanishing inch by inch. Audrey let go and the final unburnt shred drifted slowly to the floor, as the room grew dark again.
“Fuck the money,” she said.
Teresa let out the breath she had held for half a minute. Mesmerized by her cousin’s performance, and inspired. Audrey had nailed it. It was not tough love Alfred offered, but blackmail. Which is why she must refuse. She tugged her own letter out of her back pocket. She had meant to read it properly, but that would not happen now, and maybe it was for the best. Before she could reconsider, Teresa touched the letter to the flame and stared in fascination as it ignited. Feeling heat on her face and her fingers. Releasing the corner at the last moment.
“Fuck the money,” Teresa said.
Audrey hooted and clapped her hands. Kenny stood and marched out of the room.
“Screw him,” said Audrey, with a dismissive wave. She was very drunk. Was it wise, Teresa wondered too late, to emulate a drunken person?
“Turn around,” James said to them, having moved away from the window.
“Huh?”
“Turn around,” he repeated. Then more insistently, “Turn your backs to me.”
Teresa and Audrey exchanged a look, but complied. There was the sound of scraping wood. A floorboard or panel being shifted. Teresa tried to remember a hidden compartment in this room, but nothing came to her. He never told them to stop averting their gaze, but they both turned back when the room brightened a third time. James wore a deeply solemn expression as he gave his own letter to the greedy candle. Determined to get the job right. Yet Teresa saw something unusual in his face. A restrained joy, perhaps, at doing something so reckless. Or maybe it was only the flames dancing in his dark eyes.
“Fuck the money,” he said softly, just as Kenny strode back into the room. In his hand were the half dozen torn strips of his own letter. He knelt down and fed them to the flame one by one, until they were gone.
“Fuck the money,” said Kenny, arms dropping to his side.
And they were done. Ashes skittered along the floor, and the room smelled of smoke and beer and rebellion. Teresa felt a tingling throughout her body and took deep breaths to stay calm.
“So that’s that,” said Audrey. “And may the demon take any of us who goes back on his word. Now, Kenny, honey. How would you feel about making your favorite cousin a loan?”