Glimmering

They sat in silence for several minutes. Then, Jack asked, “What was that Irish word you used before, Grandmother? Like ‘banshee’—?”

Keeley tilted her head, as though listening to faraway music.

“Lunantishee, you mean? That’s what your grandfather used to call me. They were fairies of some kind, I don’t remember. Pretty girls. That’s all I meant.” She looked at him. “Why don’t you go check on her on your way upstairs, dear. Thank you.”

He was being dismissed. “All right. Maybe I’ll try calling Emma tonight—the phone was up a little while ago.”

“Very good, dear.”

He stood and stared out the window. Beyond the line of the Palisades a molten glow lingered, sending ruddy flourishes across the rain-swollen Hudson. Jack felt the strange blurry sensation that overcame him sometimes, when some bright fleck of his childhood surfaced and the terrible weight of the poisoned sky momentarily lifted. Almost he could imagine the sun bulging red upon the western horizon; almost he could see the first stars showing through, and the glitter of electric lights in distant skyscrapers. A spark of gold leapt across the darkness and Jack’s heart with it, as upon its promontory overlooking the Hudson the skeletal arches of the Sparkle-Glo factory blazed with sunset.

And then it was gone. A blast of wind shook the window as a rain squall swept through, bringing with it sheets of coruscating yellow and acid blue. The sun disappeared, swallowed by brilliant gouts of green. Day had ended, but there was no night, only a tumult of hail against glass.

“Good night.” Jack kissed his grandmother’s cheek and left.

On the second-floor landing a candle burned within a glass mantle. There was the creak of a shutter that had gotten loose, the tired exhalation from a hot-air register. Jack debated going straight up to bed, but then he heard a small sound from the bedroom that had been his aunt Mary Anne’s. He peered inside. A hurricane lamp cast its glow across the huge old four-poster. He could barely make out a lump beneath the spread.

“Knock knock.” He rapped softly at the door. “Can I come in?”

“Okay,” a muffled voice replied.

“Uhumm.” He cleared his throat. “Are you—how are you feeling?”

The bed loomed before him, an eighteenth-century cherry four-poster complete with white chenille spread and canopy. An alpine array of pillows marched across its head; at its foot a down comforter waited like an immense nougat to be devoured at need. Somewhere in between was the girl. He could hear her breathing, uneven and noisy.

But it was another minute before he could pinpoint a bulge beneath the worn chenille, neither long nor wide enough to form a decent bolster, with a faint feathering of silver where her hair tufted from beneath the blankets. He could make out her slanted eyes staring at him with a ferocity that might have been fear or just fatigue.

“I feel like shit,” she snapped.

“I’m sorry,” he said, immediately aware of how un-sorry he sounded. He asked in a gentler voice, “Can I get you anything?”

“No.”

This time the voice sounded distinctly like a sob. It would have been nice if the sound had torn at Jack’s heart, but in fact it annoyed him—everything about this girl annoyed him—and that in turn made him feel guilty.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. He traced a raised diamond on the bedspread, trying hard not to stare at the sharp little face an arm’s length away. “Can’t I get you something? Some milk maybe?”

“I hate milk.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good, because there isn’t any. But—are you hungry? Did Mrs. Iverson get you anything to eat?”

A small shudder beneath the blankets. “Some soup. And some crackers.” The shudder extended into a snaky sort of motion that ended with the girl sitting up. “Actually, do you like have a Coke or something?”

“Actually, no. I think there’s some tea, chamomile tea? No? Okay, let’s see, there might be—”

With a dramatic sigh the girl flopped back against the pillows. She pulled the covers up to her chin. “Oh forget it.”

Jack took in her fierce wedge of face, that voice so inflated with childish annoyance: the butterfly that stamped. Unexpectedly he laughed.

“What?” she demanded.

Jack shook his head, moving aside the hurricane lamp so he could lean against the nightstand. “Nothing. Just, I think it’s customary under these circumstances to say ‘Thank you.’”

“What? Oh.” The face shrank still deeper into the bed, like a currant in bread dough. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He toyed with an old electric lamp, clicked the switch experimentally a few times. “Marzana Candry. Is that your real name?”

“I already told you.”

“I mean your real last name. It doesn’t sound Polish.”

Hostile silence. He could see her eyes glittering. After a moment she hissed, “Yes.”

“Marzana Candry.” At her baleful look Jack corrected himself. “Marz Candry. Where are you from, Marz? Where in Poland?”

Silence.