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3.
ALEX CRANED HIS NECK, looking around at the well-dressed shoppers strolling the hushed hall. Most were women. He didn’t see the one he was looking for.
How could she have vanished so quickly?
He trotted to the archway, looking back toward the massive Regent Jewelry, but he didn’t see her there, either. It was not simply startling that she had left so quickly, it was maddening. He had wanted to get her name, at least.
He hadn’t expected that he would so abruptly run out of time. He had missed his chance.
But maybe not. She had said that she had to go “for now.”
He wondered what she’d meant by that.
He let out a long sigh. Probably nothing. She was probably only being polite. She’d probably wanted to be rid of him the same way he’d wanted to be rid of Bethany.
Somehow, though, it didn’t seem like that was it. Something else was going on, he just didn’t know what.
In the hallway filled with the whisper of footsteps and soft conversation sprinkled with light laughter it began to feel like he had just imagined the whole thing.
That was a thought he truly didn’t want to have, especially not on this day of all days.
The Regent Center suddenly felt very empty and very lonely. His mood, which had only started to lift, sank back down.
He pressed his lips tightly together in agitation at Bethany and her mindless text messages and phone calls. They were never important, but they had just interrupted something that was.
Letting out another sigh of disappointment, he finally made his way back through the clusters of women out for a bit of shopping. He scanned the faces, absently looking for the one who had vanished. He eventually ended up back at the gallery without seeing her, somehow having known that he wouldn’t find her.
Seized by a sudden idea, he peered in the window, wondering if maybe the woman had actually gone inside to look at his painting while he was answering the phone. Maybe he simply hadn’t noticed. Maybe she’d just wanted to see it up close. After all, she had seemed to be taken by the painting.
Peering in the gallery window, he didn’t see the woman, but Mr.
Martin saw him and flashed a polite smile. Hand-wrought Tibetan bells hung by a knotted prayer cord on the door into the small shop rang their simple, familiar chime as Alex closed the door on his way in. He only glanced at the featured pieces on his way past. He had trouble calling them “works.”
The slender Mr. Martin, dressed in a dark double-breasted suit, had a habit of nesting his hands one atop the other. He usually reversed the order several times before their arrangement suited him. A bright pink tie flared from his collar just below his prominent Adam’s apple.
“Mr. Martin, how are things today? I just stopped by to see if—”
“Sorry, Alex. None of your pieces have sold since the one last month.”
Alex drew his lower lip through his teeth. “I see.”
He guessed he would have to walk whenever possible until he could get his truck fixed. Fortunately the places he needed to get to were close enough, now that shops and stores had opened in the last year. His grandfather’s house had always been within walking distance. Ben, in fact, was probably waiting for Alex to stop by.
Mr. Martin drew on his thin smile again as he leaned in patiently. “If you would let me guide you, Alex, I know that I could make a name for you—along with a lot of money.” He lifted a hand, waggling his lithesome fingers toward the painting displayed in the center view of the window. “R. C. Dillion is making himself a fortune with his striking works. His all too obvious anguish and distress over the ruination of the planet is not just heartbreaking, but sought after. Collectors want an artist who can bring such meaningful emotion to the canvas. It gives them a certain sense of pride to let others see the important concerns they so obviously share with the artist.”
Alex glanced at the angry slashes of red paint. It certainly did represent ruin. “I hadn’t been aware that that was what R. C. Dillion was trying to portray.”
“Of course not, Alex, because you won’t take my valuable advice and open your mind to the essence of other realities, as important artists do.”
“I like painting the essence of our own reality,” Alex said as civilly as he could. “If you think that the buyers are so interested in the planet, why don’t you show them my paintings of it?”
Mr. Martin smiled in that tolerant way he had. “I do, Alex, I do, but they’re more interested in true artistic vision than…than what you do. You show nothing of the rapacious nature of mankind. Your work is charming, but not important. It’s hardly groundbreaking.”
“I see.”
Had he not been so dejected, Alex likely would have gotten angry. Through his gloom, though, the slight didn’t lift his hackles. Instead it only served to weigh him down further.
“But I assure you, Alex, I do display your work as favorably as possible, and we have had some minor success with it.” The smile became fawning as Mr. Martin remembered that occasionally one of Alex’s paintings did sell, and that his gallery took a forty percent commission. “I’m hoping for better sales of your work when the holidays come around.”
Alex nodded. He knew that arguing his beliefs about art was pointless. It only mattered if he could sell his work. He had success with a few people who appreciated his landscapes. There were still people who wanted to see works like his, paintings that crystallized the beauty of a scene. There were people who appreciated a vision that uplifted them.
The woman, after all, had liked it, and she easily appeared more intelligent than any of Mr. Martin’s collectors. She knew what she liked and wasn’t afraid to say so. Most of Mr. Martin’s clients depended on him to tell them what they should like. They were willing to pay handsomely for such erudite guidance.
Still, Alex needed to eat.
“Thanks, Mr. Martin. I’ll check back—”
“Don’t worry, Alex, I’ll call you right away if one of your pieces sells, but please think about what I said.”
Alex nodded politely before he headed for the door. He knew that no matter how hungry he got he would never throw paint at a canvas and pretend it was art.
It was turning out to be an even more depressing birthday than he had expected. His grandfather might cheer him up, though.
He paused, then turned back. “Mr. Martin, I need to take this one with me.”
A frown creased Mr. Martin’s brow as he watched Alex lift the small painting from the easel. “Take it? But why?”
Taking one painting left the gallery with six of his pieces to sell. It wasn’t like there was a run on his work.
“It’s for a gift—for someone who values it.”
A cunning grin overcame Mr. Martin. “Clever, Alex. Sometimes a small gift can be the seed that starts an expensive collection.”
Alex forced a brief smile and nodded as he tucked the painting under his arm.
He didn’t know if he would ever see the woman again. He realized that it was rather silly to think that he would.
But if he did, he wanted to give her the little painting. He wanted to see her smile again, and if it took only a painting then it would be more than worth it.
4.
ITHINK THE MIRRORS ARE WATCHING ME,” Alex said as he stared off into distant thoughts.
Ben shot him a look back over his shoulder. “Mirrors tend to do that.”
“No, I mean it, Ben. Lately it feels like they’re watching me.”
“You mean you see yourself watching you.”
“No.” He finally focused his gaze on his grandfather. “I mean it feels like someone else is watching me through mirrors.”
Ben gave him a look. “Someone else.”
“Yes.”
Alex wondered how she knew.
He was beginning to seriously doubt that she had been real. Was it possible that he could have imagined such a thing?
Was it beginning to happen to him, too? He fought back a ripple of panic at the thought.
“Don’t let your imagination get the best of you, Alexander,” his grandfather said, turning back to the work at his bench.
Alex’s gaze again wandered off into gloomy memories.
“Do you think that I’ll end up crazy, too?” he murmured after a time.
In the dead silence he turned to see that his grandfather had halted his tinkering at his timeworn workbench to stare up with an unsettling look, a kind of hard glare that could have been born only in dark and angry thoughts.
Alex found such a look frightening in that it was so unlike his grandfather, or at least the man Alex knew.
A wrinkled smile finally banished the forbidding look. “No, Alex,” the old man said in a gentle voice, “I don’t think that at all. Why would you come up with such depressing thoughts on your birthday?”
Alex leaned back against the paneling covering the stairwell nook so that the mirror on the wall to his left couldn’t see him. He folded his arms.
“I’m the same age, you know. Today I’m twenty-seven, the same age as she was when she got sick…when she went crazy.”
The old man stirred a long finger through a battered aluminum ashtray overflowing with a collection of odd screws. Ben had had that ashtray full of used screws for as long as Alex could remember. It wasn’t a convincing search.
“Alexander,” Ben said in a soft sigh, “I never thought your mother was crazy then, and I still don’t.”
Alex didn’t think that Ben would ever come to grips with the sad reality. Alex remembered all too well his mother’s inconsolable, hysterical fits over strangers who were supposedly after her. He didn’t believe that the doctors would keep the woman locked in an institution for eighteen years if she wasn’t seriously mentally ill, but he didn’t say so. Even having the silent thought seemed cruel.
He had been nine when his mother had been institutionalized. At such a young age Alex hadn’t understood. He had been terrified. His grandmother and Ben took him in, loved him, took care of him, and eventually became his legal guardians. Living just down the street from his parents’ house kept continuity in Alex’s life. His grandparents kept the house clean and in shape for when his mother got better and was released—for when she finally came home. That never happened.
Over the years as he grew up Alex would go over there from time to time, usually at night, to sit alone in the house. It felt like his only connection to his parents. It seemed to be another world there, always the same, everything frozen in place, like a stopped clock. It was an unchanging reminder of a life that had been abruptly interrupted, a life suspended.
It had made him feel like he didn’t know his place in the world, like he wasn’t even sure who he was.
Sometimes at night, before he went to sleep, Alex still worried that he, too, would end up falling prey to insanity. He knew that such things ran in families, that insanity could be passed down. As a boy, he’d heard other kids say as much, even if it had been in whispers behind his back. The whispers, though, had always been just loud enough for him to hear.
Yet when Alex looked at the way other people lived, the things they did, the things they believed, he thought that he was the sanest person he knew. He often wondered how people could be so deluded about things, like the way they would believe it was art if someone else simply said it was.
Still, there were things when he was alone that worried him.
Like mirrors.
He studied the side of the old man’s gaunt face as he searched through all the odd bits of junk littering the workbench. His gray stubble showed that he hadn’t shaved that morning and possibly the morning before that. He had probably been busy in his workshop and had no idea that the sun had come and gone and come again. His grandfather was like that—especially since his wife, Alex’s grandmother, had died. Alex often thought that his grandfather had his own difficulties dealing with reality after his son and then his wife had both passed away.
No one thought the old man was crazy, exactly. Most people thought that he was merely “eccentric.” That was the polite word people used when a person was a little loony. His grandfather’s impishly innocent outlook on life—the way he always smiled and marveled at everything, and the way he became distracted by the most ordinary objects, along with his utter lack of interest in the business of others—reassured people that he was harmless. Just the neighborhood nut. Most people regarded Ben as a meaningless old man who tinkered with the likes of tin cans, tattered books, and odd assortments of mold that he grew in glass petri dishes.
It was an image that Alex knew his grandfather cultivated—being invisible, he called it—and was quite different from the kind of man Ben was in reality.
Alex never thought that Ben was crazy, or even eccentric, merely…unique, a singular, remarkable individual who knew about things that most people could not even imagine. From what Alex gathered, Ben had seen enough death. He loved life and simply wanted to investigate everything about it.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” Ben asked.
Alex blinked at the question. “What?”
“It’s your birthday. Shouldn’t you be with a young woman, out enjoying yourself?”
Alex let out a deep breath, not wanting to get into it. He forced a smile. “I thought you might have a present for me, so I came by.”
“A present? What for?”
“My birthday, remember?”
The old man scowled. “Of course I remember. I remember everything, remember?”
“Did you remember to get me a present?” Alex chided.
“You’re too old for a present.”
“I got you a present for your birthday. Are you too old?”
The scowl deepened. “What am I to do with, with…whatever that thing is.”
“It makes coffee.”
“My old pot makes coffee.”
“Bad coffee.”
The old man shook a finger. “Just because things are old, that doesn’t mean they’re of no use anymore. New things aren’t necessarily any better, you know. Some are worse than what came before.”
Alex leaned in a little and lifted an eyebrow. “Did you ever try the coffeemaker I got you?”
Ben withdrew the finger. “What is it you want for your birthday?”
Alex shrugged. “I don’t know. I thought you’d get me a present, that’s all. I don’t really need anything, I guess.”
“There you go, then. I didn’t need a coffeemaker, either. Could have saved your money and bought yourself a present.”
“It was meant to show respect. It was token of love.”
“I already know you love me. What’s not to love?”
Alex couldn’t help smiling as he slid onto the spare stool. “You have a funny way of making me forget about my mother on my birthday.”
Alex immediately regretted his words. It seemed inappropriate to even suggest that he might want to forget his mother on his birthday.
Ben, a tight smile on his lips, turned back to his workbench and picked up a soldering iron. “Consider it my birthday gift.”
Alex watched smoke curl up as his grandfather soldered the end of a long, thin metal tube to the top of a tin lid.
“What are you making?”
“An extractor.”
“What are you trying to extract?”
“An essence.”
“An essence of what?”
The old man turned in a huff. “Sometimes you can be a pest, Alexander, do you know that?”
Alex lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I was just curious, that’s all.” He watched in silence as solder turned to liquid metal and flowed around the end of the tube.
“Curiosity gets you into trouble,” his grandfather finally said, half under his breath.
Alex’s gaze dropped away. “I remember my mother saying—back before she got sick—that I got my sense of curiosity from you.”
“You were a kid at the time. All kids are curious.”
“You’re hardly a kid, Ben. Life should be about being curious, shouldn’t it? You’ve always been curious.”
In the silence of the basement room, the only sound was the “tick” made each time the plastic tail of the black cat went back and forth, marking each passing second on the clock in the cat’s stomach.
Still hunched over the bench, Ben turned his dark eyes toward his grandson. “There are things in this world to be curious about,” the old man said in a soft, cryptic voice. “Things that don’t make proper sense, aren’t the way they appear. That’s why I’ve taught you the way I have—to be prepared.”
A shiver tingled up between Alex’s shoulder blades. His grandfather’s chilling tone was like a doorway opening a crack, a doorway into places Alex could not begin to imagine. It was a doorway into places that were not the realm of lighthearted wonder that usually seemed to make up Ben’s life. It was the flip side of lighthearted, seen only during training sessions.
Alex was well aware that, for all his tinkering, his grandfather never really made anything. Not in the conventional sense, anyway. He never made a birdhouse, or fixed a screen door, or even cobbled together lawn art out of scraps of metal.
“What essence are you extracting?”
The old man smiled in a curious fashion. “Oh, who knows, Alexander? Who really knows?”
“You must know what you’re trying to do.”
“Trying and doing are two different things,” Ben muttered. He looked back over his shoulder and changed the subject. “So, what is it you want for your birthday?”
“How about a new starter motor for my truck.” Alex’s mouth twisted in discontent. “Not all old things are so great. Women aren’t much impressed with a guy who has a Jeep that won’t start half the time. They’d rather go out with a guy with a real car.”
“Ah,” the old man said, nodding to himself.
Alex realized that, without meaning to, he had just answered the question he’d avoided when he’d first come down into Ben’s workshop. He realized that he hadn’t remembered to call Bethany back. He supposed it was more avoidance than forgetfulness.
“Anyway,” Alex said, leaning an arm on the bench, “she’s not my type.”
“You mean she thinks that you’re too…curious?” The old man chuckled at his own joke.
Alex shot Ben a scowl. “No, I mean she’d rather be out going to clubs and drinking than doing anything with her life. In fact, she wants to get me drunk for my birthday. There’s more to life than just partying.”
“Like what?” Ben prodded softly.
“I don’t know.” Alex sighed, tired of the subject. He slid off the stool. “I guess I’d better get going.”
“A date with someone else?”
“Yeah, with a junkyard to try to find a cheap starter motor that works.”
Maybe if he did ever see the strange woman again, and his Cherokee would start, he could take her for a drive in the country. He knew some beautiful roads through the hills.
He considered his memory of the woman, the way she walked through Regent Center as if she belonged in such places, and dismissed his daydream as unrealistic.
“You should get a new car, Alex—they work a lot better.”
“Tell that to my checking account. The gallery hasn’t sold one of my paintings in nearly a month.”
“You need money for a car? I might be able to help out—considering that it’s your birthday.”
Alex made a sour face. “Ben, do you have any idea what a new car costs? I’m doing all right but I don’t have that much money.” Alex knew that his grandfather didn’t, either.
Ben scratched the hollow of his cheek. “Well, I think you just might have enough for any new car you could want.”
Alex’s brow twitched. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s your twenty-seventh birthday.”
“And what does that mean?”
Ben tilted his head in thought. “Well, as near as I can figure, it has something to do with the seven.”
“The seven what?”
“The seven…in twenty-seven.”
“You lost me.”
Ben squinted off into the distance as he journeyed into distracted thoughts. “I’ve tried to figure it out, but I can’t make sense of it. The seven is my only real clue, the only thing I have to go on.”
Alex heaved a sigh in irritation at Ben’s habit of wandering off down rabbit holes. “You know I don’t like riddles, Ben. If you have something to say, then tell me what you’re talking about.”
“The seven.” Ben looked up from his essence extractor. “Your mother was twenty-seven when it came to her. Now you’re twentyseven, and it’s come to you.”
The skin of Alex’s arms tingled with goose bumps. By her twentyseventh birthday insanity had come to his mother. The familiar basement was beginning to feel claustrophobic.
“Ben, stop fooling around. What are you talking about?”
Ben paused at his work and twisted around on his stool to study his grandson. It was an uncomfortable, searching gaze.
“I have something that comes to be yours on your twenty-seventh birthday, Alexander. It came to your mother on her twenty-seventh birthday. Well, it would have…” He shook his head sadly. “The poor woman. Bless her tortured soul.”
Alex straightened, determined not to get caught up in some fool word game with his grandfather.
“What’s going on?”
His grandfather slipped down off the stool. He paused to reach out with a bony hand and pat Alex on the shoulder.
“Like I said, I have something that becomes yours on your twenty-seventh birthday.”
“What is it?”
Ben ran his fingers back over his head of thin, gray hair. “It’s…well,” he said, waving the hand in a vague gesture, “let me show you.
The time has come for you to see it.”
