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Natalia and Bennacio holed up in his room for hours, an
d I could hear their voices through the walls as they argued. Sometimes I could hear her crying.
When she wasn’t in the bedroom, she would be in the great room, sitting in the rocker by the fireplace, staring at the flames, her knees drawn up to her chest, her dark eyes reflecting the firelight. Sometimes she passed close to me coming down the hall or in the kitchen at dinner, and each time she passed I smelled peaches and thought of being a little kid, turning the handle of the ice cream churn while Mom dropped fresh peaches into its belly.
Natalia barely spoke to me, but sometimes I would catch her staring at me and she would look away quickly.
Then one night Cabiri’s flatulence chased me from the room (his farts seemed to gather underneath the covers and attack any time I rolled over, fluffing the blankets). I padded downstairs, thinking maybe I’d wake up Jeff for a game of poker or pool. But Jeff wasn’t on the sofa; Natalia was, curled up under a blanket, wide-awake, staring at the dying embers in the fireplace.
I stood for a second at the bottom of the stairs. I thought about going into the kitchen for a snack, but that was like covering up for disturbing her and didn’t seem cool at all.
“Hi,” I finally decided to say.
She didn’t answer.
“I, um, I couldn’t sleep. Cabiri won’t stop farting.”
She still didn’t say anything.
“Look,” I said, taking a step into the room. “About what happened in Halifax . . . it’s okay.”
She slid her dark eyes in my direction. I felt like a bug on a pin when she looked at me.
“What is okay?” she asked.
“You know, the fact that you kneed me in the groin.”
“I should have stabbed you.”
“Sure, I understand that.” I eased myself into the rocker across from her.
She was looking at the fire again.
“Who are you?” she asked softly.
She whipped her head in my direction, her dark hair flying to her right shoulder.
“Who are you, that you have done this?”
“I was just a kid trying to help out his uncle.”
“You are a thief.”
“Yeah. As it turned out.”
“My father should have killed you when you took the sword. I would have killed you.”
“Don’t you think life’s funny that way?” I asked. She stared at me as if I were speaking a language she didn’t understand. “I mean, I guess you’ve noticed, but there isn’t a lot to do around here, and I’m not sure how long I’ve been here, but it seems like it’s been a very long time, and all there is to do is eat and sleep and think. And I was thinking, look at how many things had to happen for me to end up here. You know, if only my dad hadn’t run off on my mom. If only my mom hadn’t died of cancer. If only Uncle Farrell hadn’t volunteered to raise me. If only Mr. Samson had hired somebody else to be the night watchman at Samson Towers. Or if Uncle Farrell had just said no to Mogart like he should have. Or if I had said no to Uncle Farrell. I guess I could go on, but you probably get the point. Your father talks a lot about fate and doom, which is something I never really bought into, but now I’m thinking maybe something does guide us or use us for something bigger . . . What do you think?”
“What do I think?” she asked. “I think you are an idiot.”
“You wouldn’t be the first,” I admitted.
“Your sympathy for my father disgusts me.”
“Well,” I said. “Maybe you shouldn’t be so hard on me, Natalia. I know how it feels.”
“You know how what feels?”
