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This is the end of a serialized story, see part I, part II , part III , part IV and part V.
“It’s better if you don’t sleep just now, Tim,” Aunt Margo refilled his cup of chamomile tea, “I think it’s better that you tell me what’s on your mind.”
“Marge, sleep is what’s on my mind. I’ve been in the hospital for the better part of two days. I’m tired.”
Margo got up and returned her kettle to the ancient stove top. Whispers of steam wafted up from it’s curved spout, and from somewhere inside its copper body, a regular tapping began. It must be the metal cooling, thought Tim, and he stared at the shiny kettle, tuning out his Aunts chatter behind him. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Something’s broken in your kettle, Marge. It’s tapping.”
“Yes I hear it. I like it.” Tap. Tap.Tap.
“I kind of like it too. Was that great grandma’s?”
“Yes. Grandpa brought it from England.”
Tim was silent for a while, then spoke suddenly: “We would go for walks. Long walks– in the rain, sometimes. The rain was loud on the cobblestones,” Tim drew his index finger along the edge of his teacup.
“Was this back in the city?”
“I couldn’t live anywhere but the city.”
Margo raised an eyebrow and suddenly became very still; she sensed that it was time to make her move.
“That’s what I thought,” said Margo cautiously, “Why don’t you tell me more about it?”
“The worst thing about getting older is the loneliness. There are plenty of people around, that’s not what I mean. What I mean is that the people are there but they are not there. Most of them weren’t even born when I was dancing– they don’t know me from Adam, really. But they’ve heard of the school, or one of my pupils, and they all want something. They’re there but not really. I was very tired, but the walks made me feel better and Tim would do most of the talking.”
“I would take a different route to the cafe every morning, though don’t believe Tim noticed that. He’s single minded. I liked it when my acquaintances saw us together; there’s nothing like a young beau to prove that you’re still vital. You shouldn’t think too hard of me for that- it’s hell when sharks smell blood in the water. Half of the battle is making them believe that one is still beautiful, still connected, still useful. Woe betide the artist who is no longer useful.” Tim chuckled lightly.
“Who did you meet on these walks?”
“Oh, the usual. Orlove one day- a charming little man. He was going places. Marilynn, Alsdorf, that is. Aaron Fleischman. Even Rahm Emmanuel, before he became mayor. He was a danseur, before he joined the IDF.”
“I’m surprised that you’re interested in politics.”
“An artist has to be.”
“Tell me about the cafe.”
“Oh, it’s lovely. It’s been there for years- they make real croissants. The real ones, do you know what I mean?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Gorgeous, buttery. Tim and I, and whoever we happened to run into that day, would drink coffee and chat about, oh well, anything. Usually that week’s gossip. Never any shortage of that. Tim was always very discreet. I liked that about him. He would hear all these delectable tidbits, yet I never heard him repeat any.”
“Smart boy.”
“Very smart. Soon people didn’t want to talk about me, or my school, anymore. They just wanted to talk about the gallery. I did a rather good job on that.” Tim chuckled again.
“You did. You did do a very good job for him on that.”
“It was easy. He was unusually humble. I don’t mean the cheap variety, the type of humility that is a cop-out. He could be very aggressive, even confrontational. He was humble inwardly, he didn’t let success get to his head. He was aware of the precariousness of his situation and played his part flawlessly. I know all about that.”
BANG! Aunt Margo’s front door slammed and interrupted their conversation.
“Are you two in the kitchen?” Fiona’s voice called from the living room.
“Yes, sweetie but give us another minute okay?”
“Fine. I’m going to get Elsie upstairs.” The sound of footsteps climbed up over the Tim and his Aunt’s heads.
“Where were we?”
“I tried never to take anything for granted, Aunt Margo. I knew that and I thought that she knew that too.”
“What makes you think that she didn’t?” The abrupt change in perspective took Margo aback. I’ve lost her, Margo thought, but maybe that’s alright now… Marge suspected that she already knew what she needed to know.
“Neediness,” Tim continued. ” She didn’t seem to understand when we were done.”
“Do you think that she felt used, Tim?” Tim didn’t answer.
“Do you think that she used you?”
“We probably used each other, yes. It’s hard for these old artists to stay vital; they loose their own shine when they come into money, then they need to bask in somebody else’s glow in order to stay relevant.”
“How did she come into money?”
A slow smile spread across her nephew’s face, “She was never badly off. She had too many NEA friends for that. But she really scored when she took up with one of the Rockefellers. It’s kinda an open secret. She did some teaching in Europe for a while and when she came back, there was plenty for the school, etc. To her credit, she didn’t blow through what he gave her. She built on it.”
“I don’t think that’s very uncommon,” said it aunt quietly.
“I don’t think so either.”
“So why is she still here, Tim?”
“Because I never went to her again. After the party I never went to her again.” Tim’s breathing was deep and slow, he stared blankly out the window, out into the orchard beyond Margo’s house. Margo watched her nephew. His father was like that too, flashed through her mind, Not vicious enough to match his charm. Margo’s hand reached out to take her nephews, but she was startled by a sound from the living room. Plop, plop plop plop. It sounded as though someone spilled dried beans on the wooden floor.
“Did Fiona come back downstairs?” Margo asked Tim. “Fiona!” she called, but nobody answered.
“I didn’t hear her,” Tim answered slowly didn’t break his stare, “Not that it matters anymore.”
“How could you say that, Tim?”
“I’m never going to get rid of her, and my problem is just going to get worse.”
“We will get rid of her, my boy. And I know how.” Aunt Margo gave him a kiss on his forehead, then left to rummage in the cupboards. “I had mice nest in the walls last winter, I wonder if they’re into something out there. Probably that old fish tank of your uncle’s.” Margo found what she was looking for– a heavy rolling pin– and then made her way to the kitchen door. When she opened it, she saw Fiona standing frozen in the living room. The young woman’s face was blank; Margo looked at Fiona’s hand: What is that orange thing?
Fiona held her medicine container; the lid was off and the vial was empty. Then Margo heard shuffling below. Little Elsie was on the floor, busily picking up the cherry-red pills and popping them into her mouth.
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