Forgotten Page 7

  Things!

  It hung in the air like Pandora’s Box, with its forbidden, burning mysteries, its cautionary, hidden secrets, best ignored, best left unopened.

  And somewhere from the cavernous pits of bolted memories, one of those things was trying to call to me, reach out to me. I sensed its inscrutable pain, its lustful urge to surface and I immediately banished it away.

  I gripped Milo’s hand. “Tell me. I want to know, now.” My body began trembling and I swallowed hard.

  But Milo shook his head. “Not here.”

  Not here? Why?

  “Tomorrow, my place… okay?” he added, with a clear sense of finality.

  I felt temporarily dumbstruck.

  He began to pull me from the room. “Come on,” he said. “We better join everyone or they’ll be wondering what’s going on.”

  Well, they wouldn’t be the only ones.

  We walked out of the house and into the outdoor throng of irrepressible relatives. Milo gave me one last hug.

  “Tomorrow then,” I managed to say to him, if I could last that long.

  His warm look, his lopsided smile was strange, foreign to his face. “Tomorrow, Claudia.” He then slowly maneuvered amongst the crowds.

  “What was that all about?” I turned to see my Papa’s sister, Lia. She appeared, as she always did, like someone extracted from the seventies. She was all blonde waves, high cheekbones and bright, cerulean eyes that quietly reflected the kindly, carefree spirit that she was. Her sleeveless dress was a palate of dazzling colors and hung loosely against her slender figure. A glass of white wine lay entwined in her short, narrow fingers.

  “I don’t know,” I said. And that was no lie.

  “How have you been since we last talked?”

  I shrugged. “Um… not sure, you know?” Apart from the rest of my disturbingly screwed up life, I still felt rattled from Milo.

  Lia’s thin, fair brows joined and she gave me a small hug. “Forza di d’animo mia esoro. [Strength of mind, my darling].” Words she had mouthed plentifully during my life; words she would undoubtedly mouth again. “You will survive this; trust yourself. More importantly, trust your heart.”

  Lia was special to me, very special, and I always took comfort in her advice. “Can I ask you something?” I felt unsatisfied, edgy, just wanting answers.

  She collected both my hands in hers. “Of course.”

  I had so many troubling questions but I asked the most vital one. “Why do people keep asking if I knew Alice Polinski?”

  It was as if I had just hit Lia with a giant bucket of Alaskan snow. She stiffened instantly, her unreadable face staring straight at me. Any residual ‘rattleness’ I had from Milo just raised several more layers.

  I shook her by the elbow. “Lia?” She blinked, then cut her gaze from me. She searched the crowds, until she latched her eyes on one particular person.

  Papa.

  Unspoken words played out between them, their expressions looking more and more somber with each breath.

  What the shit was going on?

  Fear now knotted my gut. I grabbed Lia and spun her to face me, repeated my question about Alice. This time, Lia appeared startled, fearful herself. “Go and see Nonno,” was her shaky, but abrupt reply. “I need to talk to your Papa.”

  What?

  All of a sudden, my well-sized cup of trained, faithful acceptance had reached its brim and frothed up anger took over. “No,” I hissed. “I want someone to tell me what is going on in this family. And I trust you, Lia, to be that person.”

  Lia cringed until deep lines arched the corners of her tightened mouth. She cupped my face with her small hands and said in a soft, gentle voice, “Claudia, there is nothing going on. We are all just concerned for you. And if people are asking it’s because they’re surprised that Alice Polinski knew you.”

  I wanted to believe her but my churning gut was warning me differently.

  “Just go talk to Nonno. He’s been asking about you.”

  “Please, Lia….”

  But Lia remained adamant.

  I should’ve retaliated; I knew that. With my Papa, Milo and my own cautioning feelings, I hungered for answers. But twenty-eight years of family conditioning had taught me otherwise; that any such act, would prove completely unproductive. I let Lia go with great reluctance. Her rapid bodily swing from me was unpleasantly conclusive.

  Irritation prickled my skin, irritation with myself for not being more assertive. I went in search of wine. I secured two glasses of what I knew to be my grandfather’s favorite fruity Italian elixir. I soon relocated myself alongside him.

  Nonno was smartly dressed in a crisp, aqua shirt and cotton shorts. Wisps of white hair were combed back off his forehead. His long face had more lines than a road map and far more character.

  He once told me, many years ago, that every line on his face was a story and that every story was a solid brick in the beautiful construction of his life. I had believed him.

  What made my heart now crumble was that Nonno had Alzheimer’s. I cherished those fragile times when he could remember even the simplest things. It took several topics before he displayed one of those lucid moments. I brought the wine glass to his thinned lips. He took a few sips before reclining back into his wheelchair.

  “Ah, Claudia.” His soulful eyes twinkled with heartfelt recognition. He placed his withered hand over mine. “Mi spiace, [I’m sorry]. You’re in some trouble.”

  Trouble indeed. “Sto benissimo, Nonna. [I’m okay].”

  “No, Claudia, I don’t think you are.” His bony fingers squeezed my hand with some force. “You do not understand. That woman, you must stay away from her. You must not talk to her.”

  My smile collapsed. “Nonno? Who are you talking about?”

  He blinked wildly. I repeated the question. But Nonno had regressed again, began babbling about Bebo, his fifteen-year old dog from years ago.

  I remained kneeling beside Nonno, as I tried to lure him back with soft, soothing words, with gentle strokes of his cheek. And to my surprise, he did return. His smile was brief as he whispered my name. I helped Nonno to another small sip of wine. I then questioned him about the woman he had mentioned earlier, praying that he hadn’t forgotten her. He hadn’t.

  Additional lines crinkled his forehead. “The one who came to your home, uninvited.”

  What?

  My hands became quite damp and shaky, and I fast put down his glass. “What are you saying? Are you talking about?” I stopped, too frightened to ask if he had meant Alice Polinski.

  But I had to know.

  In a scratchy, uneven voice, I blurted out her name. For a second, the words dangled in the balmy night air like a noxious fume, spreading slowly. When they finally reached Nonno’s ears, his expression became barely recognizable. His fiery eyes shriveled, his wrinkly upper lip curled into a vicious snarl. “I spit on this woman,” he hissed.

  My hand ripped to my mouth.

  “We don’t want her here.”

  We?

  Something squeezed the last of the oxygen from my lungs. I gasped and shot to my feet, then took strength from a nearby wall.

  Who could we possibly be?

  My Nonno and who else?

  I caught my parents engrossed in a heavy conversation with Lia. Did the we include any of them? I studied Marcus and Nate occupied in a light-hearted tussle on the lawn as they so often did. Could they? Or for that matter, could Milo? Was that what he was trying to tell me in his maze-like manner?

  Surely not. Surely, the idea that there existed people in my own family who knew Alice, was simply too ridiculous to take seriously. Surely, this was nothing more than just the ramblings of an old, sick man.

  Regardless, it was becoming more and more difficult to shake off the thought. But nothing compared to the next solitary word from my Nonno.

  “Cordy-bear….”

  And my world, as I knew it, abruptly stood still.

  Chapter 8


  Araneya Estate

  Christmas Day

  1987

  “OUCH, ALICE, THAT hurts,” the little girl squealed, holding a fistful of her hair.

  She was sitting on a velvety-cushioned stool facing a large, oval mirror. It had an off-white, timber frame and sat slightly sloped above its similarly colored dresser. A pair of pink lamps sat on opposite ends of the dresser, along with two plush ‘Care Bears’ and a merry-go-round music box.

  Alice stood directly behind her. In her hand, was a long handled hairbrush. “Sit still, little one,” Alice said. Her voice was soft and gentle. “Your hair is thick and long; it takes several good brushes to rid the knots.”

  “I like the knots better,” the girl grumbled. She dropped her face and pouted her small, bottom lip.

  Alice laughed. “No one likes knots. Besides, it’s Christmas Day and you will want to look your best for your Papa. He’s going to be there with all his friends.”

  The girl’s face immediately brightened and she giggled loudly. “Yes and he will bring presents.”

  Alice began re-grooming her hair. When the brush hit another tangled bump, the little girl squeezed her eyes tight until the moment passed.

  “Christmas isn’t just about presents, you know,” Alice said.

  “I know. It’s about giving and being with the people you love.” The girl said this in a very matter-of-fact manner.

  Alice began to braid the now knot-free locks.

  “Alice, does my Papa love me?”

  Alice’s hands froze mid-braid. Her own eyes captured the wide, questioning ones reflected in the mirror. A fretful grimace had now replaced the girl’s previous delight.

  “Of course, he does,” Alice answered, feeling a little fretful herself. “He loves you more than life. Don’t ever believe any differently.” She went back to the braiding.

  “He looks so sad all the time,” the girl said. “Do I make him sad?”

  “What makes you say such a thing? You make him happy, very happy.” Alice completed her plaiting, and then tossed the long tress over the girl’s shoulder. “Now, enough of this gloomy chatter.” She lifted her from the stool. “Let’s have a good look at you, instead.”

  The girl stood straight with her rounded chin pointed upwards. Alice dropped to one knee and checked the buckles on the girl’s white, patent shoes. She next grabbed the hem of her blue gingham dress and pulled it gently, straightening out any crinkles. Alice leaned back and gave her one last look. “You are simply lovely,” she whispered.

  The girl beamed.

  Alice stood and took hold of her hand. “Come on,” she said in more upbeat tones. “Let’s go and make your Papa really happy.”

  Chapter 9

  Saul

  December 26, 2010

  6:35 am

  BOXING DAY MORNING at Reardon’s home was like any other.

  Except for the billowing smoke. Its black tail oozed out of the kitchen, launching several frenzied alarms and Shirley Svenson into direct battle. Using the largest tea towel she could find, she madly fanned the fixtures, an almost impossible task for someone of such short stature, while throwing hostile glares at Ethan Sloane. Soon, the bitter air faded into nothing more than a whitish, wispy haze. The alarms then stilled.

  Ethan, on the other hand, was salvaging the remains of his French toast; the blackened vestiges revealing that his optimism would be short lived.

  Reardon leaned against the entrance, watching the entire spectacle. In his hand, was a folded newspaper. “Is there a fire?” he calmly questioned.

  “No, sir,” Shirley declared. “I think we can assume all is safe, now.” She pointed another deathly scowl at Ethan that Reardon knew only too well.

  Ethan crossed his arms in mid-air. “Be careful, Danny. Remember, these hands are lethal.” He instantly mimicked an over-dramatic karate movement.

  Reardon lowered his head and cringed.

  “Mr. Reardon,” Shirley bellowed in a strong, severe pitch. “I cannot possibly do my job here caretaking this household in… in….” She stopped, hurled her thin, snarly lips at Ethan. “In his presence.”

  Reardon strode in, tossed his newspaper onto the white breakfast bar, and then faced Shirley. She stood like a dutiful soldier waiting for Reardon’s reply. Her short, stubby fingers were laced together over her rounded torso, her peppered hair slicked back as sternly as her disposition, her chin stubbornly pointing up. Not that Reardon agreed or encouraged it, but this overplayed comportment of Shirley’s often reminded Ethan of Mrs. Danvers from the movie Rebecca.

  “He is ill-mannered, incorrigible and….”

  “Devilishly good-looking,” Ethan concluded.

  Reardon chucked Ethan a warning look. Ethan mimicked zipping his lips.

  “You must speak to him about his continual, inappropriate behavior. Because I cannot, will not tolerate it another moment.”

  Reardon sighed. He often found Shirley’s embroidered formalities a little intense - not a thought he would ever share with Ethan. But her genuine determination to do so, he found rather touching. He also knew that Shirley would never leave him. Her loyalty was too solid.

  Reardon gave her his best encouraging smile. “I will certainly speak to Ethan.”

  She thanked him and then promptly left the room.

  “Hmmm, a bit touchy today.” Ethan was dipping fresh bread into a bowl of beaten eggs, obviously trying for a French toast re-run.

  “You have bloody issues,” Reardon said. He flicked on the reheat switch of the coffee machine. It’s rich, bubbling aroma centered him.

  “Yeah, yeah, serious mother ones. Heard it all before.”

  At times, Reardon truly wondered. “You know it’d make it easier if the two of you just got along.”

  “And miss all this pleasure?”

  Reardon poured the coffee into his favorite mug. It was gunmetal grey with brass knuckledusters as a handle, a droll gift from Ethan. “So why are you here?” he asked. “I’d imagine there’s someone far more entertaining in your own home right now.”

  Ethan flipped his successful breakfast onto a large plate and perched himself on one of the barstools. “You would think, but sometimes fate deals a nasty hand. Let’s just say she didn’t work out.”

  “So instead you came here, looking for fun in a certain housekeeper.”

  Ethan’s beaming eyes glinted with mischief, and then he wolfed down his breakfast.

  Reardon sat next to him, took several mouthfuls of his coffee while it was still hot. How he hated cold coffee. “Well then, seeing you’re here, you can check out something interesting I’ve just gotten.”

  Ethan gave him a prickly looking expression. “This isn’t to do with that Cabriati chick?”

  Was Reardon that obvious? He didn't answer.

  Ethan scoffed. “You’re kidding. She dumped you, mate! Move on!”

  “She didn’t dump me.”

  “Stood you up… left you waiting... call it whatever you like. That’s dumped, man!”

  “It was an appointment, not some date!” Reardon cursed a rare, weak moment where he felt the need to defend himself, and wondered why that was. He begrudgingly unfolded his paper. “Only you could turn it into something more.”

  “Don’t need to. Have eyes; can see. And haven’t seen you this hung up on a woman since….” Ethan paused. “Well, haven’t seen you this hung up on a woman. It’s a good thing though. Means everything is functioning the way it should.”

  “You talk such crap, Ethan.”

  “Course I do.” Ethan shoved his spotless plate forward. “So, this Cabriati fascination of yours, are you going to show me the info or not? Am a very, busy man, you know.”

  ***

  Once in the office, Ethan headed straight for the chess game, clasped his hands in a prayer-like position and pressed it against his day-old, stubbly chin. It took him only a few seconds to judge the state of play. “What’s this?”

  Reardon noted Ethan’s gobsmacked expres
sion and took major delight in it. He casually sauntered to his desk. “Checkmate.”

  “Impossible.”

  Reardon gave a small, informal shrug and smiled. “What can I say, it’s all there in black and white.” He collected a few sheets from his printer and handed them to his friend.

  Ethan chucked him a twisted smirk. “You’re such a funny man.” He dropped into the sofa and began flipping through the sheets.

  Reardon crossed his arms and mentally reviewed the fresh information he had just given Ethan. It was a phone transcript between a notable federal MP, Senator Carlos Macey, and a man named Colt, dated a week before Christmas.

  And it was definitely interesting.

  “Where the hell did you get this?” Ethan said.

  “Can’t answer that or I’ll have to….”

  “Yeah, yeah, kill me right? It’s a wonder you don’t have a ton of coppers beating down your door.”

  Reardon chuckled. “I have the actual recording. Want to hear it?”

  “As long as it doesn’t involve a jail term.” Sloane stood and shifted closer.

  Reardon half-turned and clicked the mouse. “The first person you hear is the Senator.” He then began the recording.

  ***

  “Yes, Angela.”

  “There’s a Mr. Colt on the line. He says it’s urgent and that you would speak to him.”

  A small pause.

  “Put him through.” The senator’s voice was sturdy and even toned. In fact, both voices were extraordinarily clear for a recording.

  A couple of clicking noises followed, then a low, crusty voice. “It’s me.”

  “I’ve told you before. Don’t call me on this phone.”

  “I do apologize, Senator.” Said with unmistakable sarcasm. “But you’re not answering your other one.”

  “I’ve been busy. What do you want?”

  “What do I want? Haven’t you been following the news?”

  “And?”

  “Stop playing games. You know exactly what I’m talking about and… I’m… worried. We all are.”