The Necklace Page 7

  Ambrose felt his two years away when he saw his father. Israel Quincy’s lean, flinty face resembled his Scottish ancestors. His clothes were impeccably starched and spotless per usual, but he stooped forward now on his cane, a new paunch around his middle.

  “I see you’ve become a bohemian,” his father said with no hello.

  “It’s a beard,” Ambrose said with a laugh, and stepped toward his father, who drew himself up on his cane and extended his hand, precluding a hug. Ambrose shook it, both his hands grasping his father’s. Israel grunted at this show of enthusiasm and led his son into the library, muttering, “It’s a bushy one.”

  The cut glass bowl of the peppermints his father kept in the library sat where it had since Ambrose’s boyhood—his father’s sole vice, sugar. The minty scent mixed with the decaying smell of his father’s Moroccan leather–bound volumes—a smell from childhood, from being called to the library and scolded for some misdeed. That sameness—as if he’d never left town, never left this room—should have comforted.

  Israel lowered himself into an armchair next to the cold fireplace and began a nearly impenetrable monologue about business—a discrepancy in accounting, a concern over a recent acquisition in the Upper Peninsula, a diatribe about labor relations at the mines.

  Ambrose took deep draws of Mrs. Gilder’s overly sweet lemonade as he listened. His father’s wall of speech required him to respond little. It wasn’t until Israel had been prattling on, never mentioning the mine fire, that Ambrose realized the source of his father’s chatter. Israel was nervous. Ambrose’s time away had given him the power to make his father uncomfortable.

  “The fund for the widows and orphans now that the fire’s out in Sandusky—how does that work?” Ambrose decided to try his hand at getting them on a topic of interest. He had ideas for how the fund should be structured, about the appropriate level of help for the families. He didn’t want to overstep bounds early, but having worked for his father before his trip, he knew how the company compensated the unfortunate.

  “That’s a bit premature.”

  Ambrose’s brows furrowed. “They must know who’s . . . affected,” he said, reaching for delicacy.

  “Premature you being concerned with it. But I’m sure you’ve read in the papers, the fire’s still burning.” His father grazed the tip of his mustache with his fingers. “They sealed the shaft. It was your brother’s decision, and it seemed the least . . . the least I could do. It has to burn itself out. Unfortunately, it has a nearly endless supply of fuel.”

  “It didn’t smother?”

  “Apparently it has a source of oxygen or it wouldn’t still be burning, now would it?” Israel snapped, and then continued. “We made the best decision we could at the time. The temperature readings at the surface, in the non-sealed part of the mine . . . That can happen with seam fires.”

  Ambrose wondered how many bodies had been trapped inside. By the time they’d made the decision to close it off, there’d have been no chance of survivors. But the families of the dead, surely they’d have wanted the remains?

  “I figured you’ve been reading about it in the newspapers. That you’d want the latest news,” his father said. “The local authorities found nothing wrong. But some people are never satisfied, are they?”

  “Cleveland news isn’t reported in Srinagar.”

  “Well, I meant New York, when you landed,” his father said, annoyed. “Certainly in the weeks you spent in the city, you read the papers.”

  Ambrose had read rumblings in the New York papers, murmurings that shortcuts had been taken at the mine, that the number-two escape shaft had been poorly engineered.

  “How many dead?” Ambrose asked.

  “Twenty-six.” His father didn’t hesitate, certain.

  Ambrose leaned back, wishing he had something much stronger than lemonade.

  “Your brother,” Israel said, following a private train of thought. “He’s had a rough time of it since the injury.” Israel studied the tip of his shoe. “He’s shown incredible resilience, Ethan has.” He leaned down to brush a speck of invisible lint from the leg of his trousers. “It’s time for seriousness now.”

  Ambrose felt the implicit judgment in his father’s statement. Ambrose hadn’t returned home when summoned, a definite outrage in his father’s mind, and he had yet to demonstrate sufficient responsibility. To counteract the familiar feeling of inadequacy creeping up on him, he told himself it wasn’t yet decided that he was staying, let alone joining his father. These were Israel’s assumptions based on Ambrose’s return. They needn’t be facts.

  Ambrose had forgotten the exhaustion he’d felt resisting his father’s manipulations and attempts to control outcomes. Only now, being returned to his father’s stifling presence, did he fully appreciate the freedom and ease he’d felt while not constantly guarding against these maneuvers. Ambrose had been right to resist his father’s demands that he come home. He’d been right to listen to his brother urging him onward, though now Ambrose knew Ethan’s generosity came from self-interest and hidden motives concerning May.

  “He’s coming with May for dinner tonight. To celebrate.” Ambrose reminded himself to appear unaffected at the sound of May’s name. “And of course your aunt Clara, too; she’s most eager to hear of your trip. She convinced me to invite a few more people as well.” His father continued on, giving Ambrose an update on each of the evening’s guests.

  Ambrose had left his anger somewhere in the jungles of Asia—anger at May, tinged with exasperation at her flightiness; anger at Ethan, tinged with competitive rage; anger mostly at himself. It rarely surfaced anymore, but this was not the same thing as being resigned. Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as he thought when he saw her. Maybe, as May had said, in the end their actions revealed more than any other thing between them—his own actions as well as hers. Maybe he’d had enough time and distance to become comfortable with both.

  He wondered how much his father knew about him and May. From the paternal perspective it wouldn’t look too unusual. May had known Ambrose first, but had ultimately fallen for Ethan. Such things happened, perhaps more often in his father’s day, when social circles were smaller.

  Did Ambrose imagine the tension, the judgment in his father’s face? Perhaps Ambrose was being uncharitable, always guarding against his father and barricading himself. He’d gained perspective on his trip, maybe enough to engage his father as an adult, man to man. He needn’t be on the lookout for slights and disrespect. A man knew how to handle a father. Especially one who, Ambrose now noted as his father shakily rose from his chair with the aid of his cane, was rapidly becoming an old man. Ambrose felt an unfamiliar softening, and he walked to the front hall and rifled through the jacket he’d thrown on the sofa for the leather-bound packet in the interior pocket. He unwrapped the cord.

  He was proud of his photographs and thought they held promise. He’d had a great many developed during his stay in New York. He chose one, a unique perspective of the Taj Mahal, and brought it to his father standing behind the carved desk.

  “Look,” Ambrose said, handing the print to his father. “A true wonder of the world.”

  Israel gave it a cursory glance and handed it back to Ambrose.

  “It’s incredible in person. Much more so than in a picture,” Ambrose said.

  “It’d have to be, wouldn’t it?” Israel tapped the photo with the back of an index finger. “I’ve seen this picture before. We get the world news here.” He leveled his gaze at his son. “Unlike Srinagar.”

  Ambrose felt the challenge in his father’s words, and he flipped through a few more pictures of jungles and temples trying to find something his father hadn’t seen, something to amaze him.

  Israel kept watch over Ambrose’s shoulder. He stopped Ambrose at one photo in particular, reaching over to grasp it and bring it closer.

  Ambrose had snapped Dicky’s Indian princess in profile as she’d come into the room unaware, eyes down and a glossy strand of hai
r slipping out of her long plait, a surreptitious portrait, taken unasked.

  “Loulou will be here soon, of course,” Israel said. “She’s out with her friends. And I believe May’s invited young Richard as well.”

  Dicky’s girl had objected to having her picture taken, but Dicky had pleaded with Ambrose to find a way. Dicky had become so insistent that Ambrose had started teasing him about including the prize in the trunks with the hunting trophies he was sending home. Nevertheless, Ambrose had returned each evening with the camera, each time pretending he was photographing the riotous inlaid mosaics on the walls or the architecture of the limestone turrets outside while he tried to frame her into the picture. He felt guilty for it, but he finally snapped her.

  Israel said nothing, carefully lining up the edges of the photo and folding it before methodically ripping it in half, and then in half again. “Your sister has taken quite a shine to young Richard.” Dicky had returned well before Ambrose, and had been taking Loulou around ever since. May had mentioned something of this in her letter.

  His puritanical father’s nonplussed calm as he ripped each quarter into smaller pieces unnerved Ambrose, but he couldn’t look away. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised at Israel’s knowledge of Dicky’s indiscretions. Dicky was a braggart and a gossip. That Israel kept up with such gossip indicated that things between Dicky and his sister were more serious than Ambrose had guessed.

  Israel returned the photo to his son in pieces. “Fortunately, young Richard . . .” Ambrose knew Dicky would forever be “young Richard,” even in his seventies. “. . . seems ready to nest. And I’ve known the Cavanaughs my whole life. Your mother and Celeste Cavanaugh were the same year coming out.”

  Ambrose tried to remember how he’d felt on the train coming home—a world traveler, someone with perspective and ideas. How was it possible that in less than an hour his father had managed to strip that away?

  His father turned to the cold fireplace. “I don’t pretend to understand your decisions, Ambrose—leaving, not returning after the accident, or for your brother’s wedding, which would have been the decent thing to do.” And with that phrase, and with the ripped photo in his pocket, Ambrose thought that maybe his father understood a little more of the situation than previously imagined. “Begging from him so you could continue sightseeing and hunting.” He said the last two words like “whoring” and “gambling,” and in a tone as if Ambrose had robbed a widow. “But now that you’re back, I’m sure you’ll want to get on with it.”

  Ambrose’s shoulders slumped as a feeling of powerlessness and ancient, sullen despair engulfed him.

  “And we must decide which club you’ll join,” his father continued, turning toward him. “I’m sure you don’t want to join mine—full of old men. Ethan’s might do, but it’s turning into a business club. We’ll ask him where the young men are joining these days. The bachelors.”

  His father walked to the bowl of candies, selected one, and held it out to Ambrose. “You always did like mint,” he said.

  Ambrose placed the mint in his mouth, a concession to his father and a small price to pay for finally being able to leave the room.

  * * *

  Upstairs, he spat the candy into the doily-lined trash can.

  His childhood room shrouded him in afternoon silence and damp heat. The yellowed shades drawn against the bright sun made his room a warm, dim tomb. His relief in escaping his father embarrassed him.

  He opened his valise and rooted through notebooks and papers, searching for his flask. He’d come to his father’s dry house knowing he’d need supplies. His hand brushed the cerulean leather jewelry box—longer than a ruler and wider than his wallet, the leather tooled in gilt with lotus flowers and paisley. The box represented a problem he’d been pushing from his mind, refusing to think about or decide. But here it was, clearly caught up with him now. The jewelry case was shabbily made. The glue on the white silk satin inside was already yellowed at the seams. Given the Indian love of all things English, it wasn’t surprising they’d copied the jewelry boxes. Ambrose preferred the traditional silk pouches and inlaid sandalwood boxes he’d seen in the markets. He’d been meaning to buy one, though after May’s telegram he never seemed to get around to it.

  He lifted the lid and a thrill lit his eye, as it had when he’d first seen the jewel—a quickening felt by all knights-errant when first laying eyes on ancient bounty.

  A sapphire as big as a robin’s egg sat nestled in the middle of a circle of gems. Two peacocks, set with diamonds, supported the dazzling sunburst of stones on their backs. Small emerald drops dangled in their beaks. He’d since learned that peacocks were auspicious and good luck, but given the state of things he doubted it. The peacocks and the sapphire with its constellation around it formed a heavy, chest-spanning pendant, the gold so ruddy it looked like brass. Where, in the west, a chain might attach to each side of the neck plate and clasp in the back, ribbons of blue, violet, and real gold were tied in intricate knots on each side of the collar. These were then tied around the wearer’s neck.

  It was tribal, exotic, and so large it bordered on vulgar. It was meant to be May’s, but he had second thoughts about giving it to her now. Such an extravagant gift would surely be strange for a sister-in-law. Though perhaps no stranger than May actually being his sister-in-law.

  He lay back on the bed, the necklace on his sternum, a heavy thing.

  She’d be here soon. Though he told himself he had released his dreams, it would be awkward. He planned to smooth things for them both, for everyone, really. Her letter made him suspect she’d help him in this.

  He’d considered selling the necklace in New York, and he’d taken it to a few merchants in the Diamond District who’d quoted low prices, claiming it was unfashionable.

  But he knew May would like it. He’d been picturing her wearing it.

  The thought of her with him at his going-away party had been a well-worn and much-used source of fantasy for months. A force of habit, familiar and effective in its ability to satisfy. Without thinking of it too closely, and with a certain amount of enlivening defiance, his hand found his belt buckle, unbuttoned his trousers. When he’d heard of the wedding, his anger had stopped this practice. In the last few weeks he’d revisited this vision—only a few times, and always with a pang of conscience. His excitement was refreshed by the new taboo of it. He shouldn’t be thinking of her like this, shouldn’t be thinking of her at all. With a sharp tug up and slower stroke down, he gave himself over to memory. And in the privacy of his mind it was just a memory, an efficient, disembodied daydream. It didn’t mean anything.

  He was cleaning up, confirmation of his aloneness settling over him as his heart stopped racing. Chimes rang from the front hall. Mrs. Gilder ringing them down for cordials and then dinner.

  He crammed the necklace in his jacket pocket without the case and glanced in the mirror. His disheveled clothes telegraphed how little he cared, a reassuring costume and something to live up to. He was not unaware of the effect he achieved on women. Part of the appeal lay in his height, his trimness, but also in his eye and his energy, which now radiated an easy assurance. While there were men more handsome, there were few more daring, a trait Ambrose had learned to leverage in his favor on his trip. It wouldn’t suit him to come down in polished evening clothes and their attendant conformity and planning. He liked rolling out of bed with satisfaction on his face, fortified in his own pleasure. He would get this over with and then everyone could move on.

  As he came down the stairs, he heard voices on the threshold, which stopped when he entered.

  “What did I tell you?” his father said to the room as he gestured at Ambrose. “Won’t even dress for dinner.”

  Ambrose was frozen for a full moment, and then he forced himself to move toward his brother, who was standing with May at his arm, the two of them a complete portrait.

  Ethan stepped forward, as if he were the master of this moment, welcoming Ambrose home.
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  But Ethan didn’t offer a hand; he raised his right arm and embraced Ambrose. And it was then, looking down, that Ambrose saw it clearly.

  His brain quickly slotted pieces together like a puzzle, reorganizing assumptions and theories, recalculating his father’s disapproval and Ethan’s generosity. He felt anger draining away, alarm and shame filling their place.

  Ethan hugged Ambrose tightly with his one good arm. Ambrose hugged back with two. The brothers were now locked together. Ambrose could feel the force in Ethan, as if he were intent on steering the evening, steering Ambrose in general, where he chose. Ethan finally pulled back after embracing long enough for Ambrose to collect himself.

  “Welcome home,” Ethan said.

  “I didn’t know” was all Ambrose could manage, nodding down. While he’d read about it in letters, it was another thing to see the raised lesions, the pale pink scars that wrapped around Ethan’s knuckles and disappeared up under the cuff of his shirt.

  “Didn’t you?” Ethan asked, a brisk sting in his inflection and then a wide smile that looked genuine. “I got your letters and that funny elephant. God of healing.”

  “New beginnings.” Ambrose noted that Ethan already had strategies for negotiating his injury.

  They’d said he was still doing his massage therapies. He was scheduled for additional surgeries. They’d done everything to prevent flexion deformity. They were still trying things. This wasn’t the end. These were the thoughts Ambrose held on to now. He cast furtive glances at Ethan’s shiny, mottled hand and clearly lifeless arm. It looked painful. It looked permanent, and that permanence was the thing that stunned Ambrose. He’d thought there was still hope.

  As Ethan took control of the conversation, chattering to smooth things over, the faint lingering stain of jealousy washed off Ambrose, replaced by a tint of pity and a hit of genuine sadness at the sight of his brother.

  May, cool in white and pearls, stood silently beside Ethan.

  Ambrose didn’t know what he’d been expecting. It had only been two years, and yet she’d changed—her face more angular, and her smile an insurmountable boundary. Her hair was chopped in a precise shingle. The severe hairstyle was so popular, and something he hadn’t gotten used to since his return. A few strands of silver sparkled in the part of her hairline. A thin band of diamonds glittered on her left hand.