THIRD
Q. Kelly
Thanks and acknowledgements
Melanie, my wife, deserves a medal for her support and patience.
Thank you to all my readers. I mean everyone: my beta readers, past and present, my editorial readers, the people who have bought my books and the people who took the time to review them and/or email me. Thank you all. You are a big part of what keeps me going.
Last, but not least, many thanks to cover designer Leigh Ann Britt. Love the cover!
Ride the Rainbow Books
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This book is a work of fiction. No part of this book may be reproduced without the permission of the author.
"Third" Copyright © 2011 by Q. Kelly
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Q. Kelly on the Web:
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Q. Kelly's Other Books
Waiting
Strange Bedfellows
All in the Family
The Odd Couple
The Old Woman and Other Lesbian Stories
Miss Lucy Parker and Other Short Stories
Anne's teeth used to be bad, so she had a workaround for when she brushed them. No matter that her teeth were marvelous now. In her mind, they would always be worn little pebbles. Her workaround was simple: no looking in the mirror. Anne wandered through her apartment, taking in the library, the neatly arranged books, the many paintings she had done and the living room with the security guard, who was usually Jordan. When she was almost finished brushing her teeth, she went back down the hallway. Afterward, Anne took a long, luxurious bath, complete with bubbles. This morning was no different except that before her bath, Anne used a Ped-Egg to touch up her heels. Her morning routine was complete by seven a.m.
She decided she wanted to paint today. Outside.
Anne returned to the living room. "How is the weather?" she asked Jordan.
"Same as yesterday, ma'am."
Anne nodded and informed Jordan of her plans. She bundled up in her heaviest coat. She carried her paints and a chair, while Jordan carried the easel and a blank canvas. He set up camp a respectable distance from her, so respectable that when he inevitably talked into his walkie-talkie, Anne could not make out his words.
What shall I paint today? Anne had no model except the walls and the courtyard's sole ornamentation, a skeletal tree. She could go back in and find something to serve as a model, but she did not feel like it. She would pluck a model from her imagination. Anne wore gloves, thin gloves. Not the best to keep the cold from her fingers, but she would sacrifice comfort for mobility.
Hmm. Anne realized something. She had been approaching the courtyard's walls wrong. Yes, they confined her. Yes, they were high, white and foreboding. A terrible subject. But to paint on...
"Jordan, may I paint on the walls?"
Jordan frowned. He frowned at everything Anne said. "The walls?"
"I can get much more on them than on the canvas. Also, this space needs brightening."
Jordan barked in his walkie-talkie. A few minutes later, he said: "Yes, ma'am."
"Thank you."
"One section of wall to start with."
Anne chose her section, the farthest from the Icarus building, her prison. The skeletal tree had given her an idea. Anne dipped her brush into brown paint but changed her mind. She picked a fresh brush and went for purple. Her family tree would not have the usual brown trunk and brown branches. Anne painted a fat, solid purple trunk. The trunk had to be sizable, given the craziness of her family tree. Anne painted branch spaces for her mother and father, got more purple, and then painted spaces for her brother and sister, and then for her husband, his parents and his siblings.
She painted the branch for her child.
She added two branches for her child's half-siblings by Catherine and Jane. After a moment's thought, she inserted branches for Catherine and Jane themselves, and for her husband's other wives. Ah. Wait. Her husband had recognized one illegitimate son, so he and his mother ought to be part of the family tree too.
Anne stepped backward, then backward. No room for more branches, unfortunately. She had done a tremendous job. The spacing was excellent, despite the on-the-spur additions. Not perfect, but she could make a rough draft sketch later today and paint over the tree tomorrow. Start anew, add the two spaces. Purple had been entirely appropriate. The tree was long and expansive. The branch spaces curled downward like claws, like her husband's abusive power. Maybe Anne would add leaves later, after she added names.
Maybe leaves only with little Elizabeth's branch.
"Ma'am." Jordan again. "Dr. Franklin is coming down for a chat."
"Very well." Anne did not like Josiah Franklin, especially now that he was dying. Death meant Josiah dropped by daily, sometimes more than once a day. Anne cleaned purple paint off her brush. She dipped it into pink paint. She painted pink grass—why the heck not? She would go psychedelic. Anne loved that word. Psychedelic, psychedelic.
Her life was psychedelic, indeed.
"Dr. Franklin, ma'am."
Anne continued painting psychedelic pink grass. Let Josiah Franklin come to her. His motorized wheelchair was smooth, but not smooth enough to be entirely silent on the brown, dead grass.
"Anne," Josiah Franklin said.
Anne stopped painting. "What?" She would make no move to sit. She would assert what little power she had over the man—this gaunt little dying creature who held her life in his hands. Pathetic.
"What are you painting?"
"My family tree. Or, rather, Elizabeth's family tree."
"Ah."
Anne pointed out the branch where she would put Elizabeth's name. "She goes here."
"Are you sure you do not want to see her again?"
"I am sure," Anne said. She knew that one thing. She felt it surely and certainly in her bones. Her daughter should stay where she was. Her daughter should not become a prisoner like her mother.
Josiah eyed Anne's brush. "May I?"
"No."
Josiah clasped his hands in his lap, and a small smile touched his lips. "Do you remember your first painting lesson with Regina?"
"Yes."
"Now look at you."
Anne refused to let Josiah's words sneak into the part of her that responded to flattery. "Why are you here? I am not telling you anything."
"I've made arrangements. Will make arrangements."
"Arrangements?"
Josiah's gaze roamed the family tree and settled at the top. "You realize I have a month left. At most."
"Yes."
Josiah eyed Anne speculatively, and she tightened her grip on the paintbrush. She had assumed Josiah would leave her here in the hands of his underlings, especially nasty Benjamin. But perhaps not.
"I will tell my daughter about you. She'll take care of you. She'll do better by you than Regina and I did."
Anne blinked. "Your daughter? Helen?"
A half-grin from Josiah. "Naturally."
The half-grin made Anne feel stupid. Naturally, Josiah had said. Meaning: You know full well I have but one child, and she is Helen. "You are dismissed," Anne said stiffly. "I must resume my painting."
"You have talent," Josiah said. "You truly do."
Anne kept silent. Josiah Franklin deserved no thanks, for anything. Anne selected black paint and pressed her brush against the wall. She would make a field of black poppies among the pink grass. A few moments later, she heard Josiah's wheelchair retreat.
Helen Franklin.
Anne was not sure how she felt about Josiah's news. At least Anne knew where she stood with Josiah. Starting over with another person was not appealing. What would Helen Franklin do with her? How would Helen treat her, view her? Would Helen see Anne as a plaything too, a wondrous creature, or as a person?
Regina, Helen's mother, had shown Anne several pictures of Helen. Helen had tousled, shoulder-length blond hair and light eyes, the kind that were green some days and blue other days. Helen's nose was slightly crooked, maybe from an errant fist or a misthrown ball. Or maybe it was genetics. Helen was married, Anne knew that much. She had dogs, and her wife's name was Yalia.
And Yalia had killed a six-year-old child. Accidentally, but still...Regina had worried about Helen and Yalia a good bit after the shooting. Yalia was a damn fine cop, Regina Franklin said, until she was faced with a situation no one should be in.
Guns, Anne thought. Guns are no good.
She finished the poppy field and wished that Josiah was not dying. Anne did not want, did not need, any more upheavals in her life.
"Ma'am," Jordan said. "Dr. Franklin has contacted his daughter. Be prepared to meet her tomorrow about two o'clock."
Anne's chest was heavy. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. So quick.
"Tomorrow is her birthday," Jordan went on. "Forty years old."
"How nice," Anne murmured. In other words, I am nothing but a present. A toy.
Helen would have to kiss Devon good night. No doubt about it; after three dates, Devon had been giving Helen certain looks, certain touches. Helen tried to focus on her dinner—chicken and baked potato—but could not taste the food. The chicken probably was good; it was thick, succulent and juicy. And Devon was nice, with kissable lips: full and pouty. In other circumstances, kissing them would be no tragedy.
"Are you all right?" Devon asked.
Helen cut a piece of chicken. "I'm fine." Insert fork, chew, pretend to taste. "Mmm. This chicken gets better with each bite."
Devon laughed. "I agree." She had gotten chicken too, but with salad. She speared a piece of lettuce and chewed.
"Rabbit food," Helen said.
"What?"
"Salad is rabbit food. Can't stand it."
"Come on. You can't beat salad."
"I'll bring you rabbit pellets next time. See how you like them."
Devon's lips tugged up. "So there'll be a next time."
The knot in Helen's stomach intensified, and she forced herself to smile. "Sure."
"You don't sound enthusiastic."
Helen glanced down, at her half-eaten chicken. "I like you, Devon. I really do."
"I like you too. How can I make you feel better?"
Nothing will make me feel better. "I'll figure something out," Helen said as brightly as she could, avoiding a suggestive undertone to her voice. Move to safer territory. "So you started reading my book last night?"
"Mmm. Got to Chapter Five." Devon munched on more rabbit food. "It's tragic. So much went into getting Edward born, and then he dies at such a young age."
Helen had to agree. She was a Tudor historian and had written two books on the Tudors. Her more recent book was on Edward VI, the only surviving legitimate son of Henry VIII, if dying at sixteen years old could be called surviving. Helen had a soft spot for Edward, whom historians had neglected. Edward became king at a mere nine years old and had never come into his own. His uncles and other power-hungry men had manipulated him, had ruled in his stead. He had died still a child, died at an age where historians would not write much about him. Helen wanted to change that, and her biography on Edward was a good start.
"I'm thinking about taking a risk," Helen told Devon.
Devon raised an eyebrow. "Tell me more."
"Maybe I'll dip my toe into fiction. I could write an alternate-history book, one based on if Edward had lived, had loved, had married. If he had become a true king and not a boy puppet."
Devon set down her fork. "Wow. I'd definitely read it."
"Thanks." You're just being nice. But that's okay. "I have it outlined," Helen admitted sheepishly. "I gotta force myself to sit down and type."
"You having writer's block?"
"I guess so. Fiction is..." Helen chuckled. "It's similar to nonfiction in many ways. You gotta have flow and people to root for or identify with. But in other ways, fiction is a whole other animal."
"I can imagine. I'm amazed you find the time to write."
Helen grinned. "Cross your fingers." Her full-time job was as a history professor at Gallaudet University. Being a Tudor historian was not too lucrative.
Devon squeezed Helen's hand and gave her another look. "I'm glad you found time for tonight. Glad, for sure."
"Awesome." Helen hoped her responding smile was not strained.
"Your nose," Devon said, alarm tingeing her voice.
Helen knew what these words combined with that tone meant. Another nosebleed. At least this one had good timing. She blotted her nose with a napkin and excused herself to the bathroom. She tilted her head forward and pinched her nostrils. The bleed was light and stopped after few minutes. Helen got nosebleeds about twice a month in the winter, and they usually came at the worst times. "Good nosebleed," Helen murmured. "Thanks for saving me from Devon."
Helen and Devon finished their meal without saying much more. Devon insisted on paying the bill, and they walked outside. Their cars were parked side by side. The night was frigid, normal for late January in Northern Virginia. Helen puffed out several breaths. She liked seeing her own breaths. Breaths were real. Significant. They had shape. They were not formless beings.
Devon opened her car door.
It's now or never. "Wait a sec." Helen slid her hand into Devon's, hoping she was coming across as enthusiastic. However, she had the sinking feeling she came across as robotic, because robotic was how her heart felt—batteries, spark plugs, forced emotion. Helen could not remember the last time she and Yalia kissed, truly kissed, or had a good laugh or a good cuddle, and that made her sadder than anything. What the shooting had done to Yalia was crazy. The shooting had transformed Yalia into a different person. She might as well have been the one shot. But, no. Yalia was fine physically. Emotionally was where the damage was.
Stop. Not exactly true this is all Yalia's fault, or the shooting's fault. Helen bore her share of responsibility, but she would not think about that just now.
Helen kissed Devon, a peck on the lips, and Devon drew back. "Helen, I..." Devon sighed. She ran her hand through her short hair. "I really like you. But you're not into me. Not in the way that counts. Maybe we should say goodbye permanently. Don't waste my time, or your time. This thing with your wife..." Another sigh. "You're in love with her. You don't want anyone but her."
"Devon."
Devon grinned. "Hey, good luck to you and Yalia. Really. And if you ever get over her, give me a call."
*****
Yalia was asleep when Helen got home, and so were the furkids. Great. Only eight-thirty, and they're asleep. They were snuggled together in bed: Yalia, Mario, Luigi, Toad and Bowser. No room for Helen. As usual. She wandered into the living room and flopped onto the couch. She'd move the pets in a bit. Or just fall asleep here. Whatever. Yalia did not care. Helen fished her phone out of her purse and navigated to the ad she had posted two months ago.
Discreet Women Only, Please
This ad is more of an explanation, perhaps an essay, than an ad. But that's where I am in my life. Bear with me, and if you make it to the end, maybe we'll be good for each other ;-) First, know I am married and have been for ten years. (I am almost forty years old.) My wife and I embodied the "love at first sight" cliche, although we did not get together for some time. Several years ago, my wife was involved in an incident I won't go into detail on here. I will just say the incident has changed the landscape of our marriage, and not in a good way. So, this is where I am now. I love my wife. I keep hoping my wife will "wake up" one day and be herself again. In the meanwhile, I'm not sure what I am looking for. Perhaps a friend. A friend who can be a little more than a friend, if you get my gist. Someone who won't get involved overly deep. Someone who won't fall in love with me.
Someone discreet. Someone practical, who knows life is gray and purple and orange, not black and white.
Helen clicked the trash-can icon. A message popped up: ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO DELETE THIS AD? YOUR ACTION CANNOT BE UNDONE.
"Sure I'm sure," Helen muttered. She pressed "Yes." What had she been thinking? She had been a nervous wreck since she posted the ad, since she started going out with other women. Nothing significant had happened, nothing physical, anyway, until the slight Devon kiss tonight. Helen simply was not cut out to sneak around her wife's back. The time to face facts had arrived. She would have to leave Yalia. Yalia was showing no signs of changing her mind about not wanting children, and Helen would be forty years old tomorrow. She would need to get pregnant, or adopt, soon.
Sometimes Helen still had a hard time believing that gaga-about-kids Yalia had changed her mind. "I canceled the doctor appointment. I don't want kids anymore," Yalia said one day about a year and a half ago, and that had been that. Yalia was not wavering. Yes, the shooting had changed so much. Yalia could barely look at her little niece and nephew these days.
Helen did not want to hate her wife, but a tiny part of her did. She had married Yalia with the understanding they would have kids one day. Yalia wanted kids more than anything, too. Then, presto! The shooting. Helen could not imagine how traumatic it must have been for Yalia. But that was three years ago, and it was unfair of Yalia to expect Helen to give up on kids as well.
Helen sighed. If a tiny part of her hated Yalia, a bigger part of her hated herself. After the no-kids declaration, Helen had begun to tune out of their marriage, plain and simple. Some days she treated Yalia like little more than a plastic plant in the corner. In turn, Yalia did the same. Helen could not remember the last time they kissed or had sex. I fucked up, Helen thought. I fucked up badly. She should have been more understanding about the no-kids thing instead of withdrawing. If she had, who knew. Maybe Yalia would be ready by now to have children.
"Helen." Yalia's soft voice sounded from the hallway.
Helen jerked guiltily. She set her phone on the couch, screen down. "Hey, you," Helen said. Yalia's hair was tousled, dark curls tumbling past her shoulders. Her full name was Yalia Rose Yamato. Her paternal grandfather had been Japanese, and Yalia's heritage showed not only through her last name, but through her hair color and the slight slant to her eyes. Yalia had lovely bed hair. Always had. For a moment, Helen yearned to take Yalia into her arms, kiss her, run her fingers through Yalia's lovely bed hair. For life to be as it was before the shooting.
Yalia rubbed sleep out of her eyes. "How did the meeting go? Does Luke like how the book's progressing?"
Wow. Helen was taken aback at Yalia's questions. Was her wife showing interest in her? Double wow. "Um, uh, the meeting..." Helen swallowed. She could lie no longer. Lying was not Helen, and carcasses blew into her brain, rotten, decaying, stinking, lying carcasses. "I have something to tell you," Helen whispered, and she went on to tell Yalia about the ad. About how Helen had been able to do nothing with these women until the little Devon kiss tonight. The kiss Helen had not wanted. She said she desperately loved Yalia but was not ready to roll over and be sexless and childless for the rest of her life.
"I think we're finished," Helen admitted at last.
"I'm not stupid," Yalia snapped. "I know what you've been up to, flitting about on dates."
Flitting about on dates was inaccurate, but Helen let it go. The revelation that Yalia knew did not surprise her; it made her want to reach Yalia once more. "Yalia, can we try counseling? One time? Please? Just one time. Try. We can work on the kids issue."
"In other words, browbeat me into having a child."
"No."
Yalia directed her gaze to a framed caricature on the far wall. Helen and Yalia had gotten it done during their honeymoon in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. Helen wondered if Yalia was thinking the same thing she was: Our marriage is a caricature. A sad, sad caricature.
"Louis is dead," Helen said softly. "It wasn't your fault. He's dead. But you're not."
"I want custody of the dogs," Yalia replied.
Helen felt her temper rise. So this was how it would be. No fight, no protestations from Yalia. Yalia was truly going to choose not having children over Helen. Helen wanted to scream. She wanted to thump her chest and yell: You promised! You brought up having kids first! You wanted two boys and two girls. Get a grip! Helen wanted lots of red, lots of yellow, lots of dragon fire in her scream. She wanted to scream to swallow up both herself and Yalia.
Helen did not scream.
"Fine," Helen said, keeping her voice calm, maybe a bit icy. "Fine, Yalia. The dogs are yours. Happy?"
Yalia's chin trembled. "Who should move out? Will we try to be friends?"
Tears clouded Helen's eyes. This is for real. Shit. "Daddy called earlier today."
"He did?"
"Mmm. Practically begged me to see him tomorrow."
Yalia frowned. She took a small step forward, and Helen let herself breathe. Her diversion tactic had succeeded, at least for now.
"What does he want?" Yalia asked.
Helen shrugged. "All he said was that he had a huge birthday surprise for me and that it would be the defining moment of my life."
"It isn't like him to exaggerate."
"No."
"I'll go with you."
Helen sighed. "No, that's okay. But thanks. Your offer means a lot." Helen went to her wife and put her arms around Yalia's firm body. Yalia wrapped her arms around Helen as well, which cheered her somewhat. "Let's talk in a few days about who is moving out," Helen said. "Okay?"
"Okay," Yalia agreed in a whisper.
"I am dying," Josiah Franklin said. "I suppose you can tell."
Helen could. Her first thought upon seeing him was: Dad's dying. She had not seen her father in exactly one year, since her thirty-ninth birthday—also the day of her mother's funeral. Then, Josiah's white hair was lush and thick, his chest strong, his posture confident despite his mourning. Now, he was in a wheelchair. He was a shrunken, wrinkled leaf. His skin hung loosely. His eyes were alive, though. Bright, startlingly, secretive green. As always.
Helen supposed she ought to bend down and hug him, but neither of them wanted a hug. "Cancer?" she guessed.
"Yes."
Helen was glad her mother had died unsuspecting, the best way. A car had hit her while she was on a walk. Doctors said she did not suffer.
"I have perhaps a month left at most," Josiah said.
Helen attempted a reassuring smile. She was vaguely curious what kind of cancer her father had. Not curious enough to ask. The man in the wheelchair was her father in name and blood only. As far as Helen could remember, he had been gone, swept up in his work. She had put up with him because, for some reason, her mother loved him.
"I know I have not been a good father," Josiah remarked.
Helen's reply was silence, and she kept her discomfort at bay. Her fault for coming. Her gut had told her not to meet with her father. She should have listened. Never mind her father's words on the phone: Defining moment of your life, Helen. Incredible birthday surprise. Please meet with me. Josiah was a brilliant man, a genius, she recognized that much. But stunted when it came to emotional intelligence. Or maybe he just did not care. She was embarrassed to tell people who her father was and what he did. Josiah Paul Franklin, billionaire. Yep, that billionaire, founder of defense contractor and weapons maker Icarus Corp. He was also owner of who knew how many smaller corporations and research foundations. Helen and her father connected over one thing, and one thing only: their passion for history.
"Well," Josiah said. "How is Yalia? How are the Nintendo kids?"
"Fine. And fine." Not really. This morning, Helen had found Yalia crying in the bathroom. "I'm sorry," Yalia had said. "I'm so sorry. I know I'm being unfair." But she had said nothing about trying to salvage their marriage.
Helen surveyed her father's office. She had not been on Icarus property since she was a child, not that she remembered much from these days. The office did not surprise her. Whatever his faults, Josiah Franklin was not a man of pretension and airs, and the simplicity of his office showed that. "What's this incredible birthday present you have for me? That you're dying can't be it."
He chuckle-wheezed. "No, Helen Bear."
She winced at the nickname, her father's eternal moniker for her. "Why am I here?" Today was a Saturday. The building had been deserted when Helen arrived, and she had followed her father's instructions to find his office.
A knock sounded. The man who entered was not handsome, but he had an air of confidence, of intelligence about him. He looked about fifty years old. He wore the Icarus security uniform, complete with a gun in a holster.
"Benjamin, you're right on time," Josiah said. He beamed. With reverence. With love.
Helen narrowed her eyes. What's this? Her father going googly over a male security guard?
"Josiah." Benjamin had the same love and reverence in his gaze.
"Meet Helen, my daughter."
Benjamin executed a little bow and held out his hand. "How do you do, Dr. Franklin?" He had a rolling, mellifluous accent. Somewhat British.
Helen shook his hand. Callused, but Benjamin's fingernails were meticulous. Curved. Manicured, most likely. The opposite of Helen's nails.
"Your father speaks highly of you, Dr. Franklin. I read both of your books. Perhaps you would be so kind as to autograph my copies? They're downstairs."
"Certainly."
Something was off about Benjamin's accent. Helen could not place what, and the fact bothered her. Because of her Tudors work, she had spent time in England and in France, and knew most, if not all, of the dialects and regionalisms. What was off about Benjamin's accent? It was not quite modern, maybe, and such an odd mixture of American and British. Helen caught herself from wandering a pointless path. Benjamin was not someone worth wasting time on.
"Please follow me, Dr. Franklin," Benjamin said.
*****
Benjamin went to a door marked "STAIRS." He gave Helen a rueful grin and said: "Claustrophobia." Josiah and Helen took the elevator. They descended ten floors into the bowels of the Icarus building and met back up with Benjamin.
Josiah, thanks to his motorized wheelchair, had no problem keeping pace with Benjamin and Helen. At the end of the first corridor, they took a right. They traveled the entirety of another corridor. Benjamin hung a left, into a room blanketed on one wall by video monitors. Helen counted twelve monitors, arranged in rows of three. Two of the monitors showed people. One was a man in the Icarus security guard uniform. He sat watching TV in what appeared to be a living room. The center monitor showed a woman curled up in bed. She was reading a book. She had short, dark hair, but further details were hard to make out because of how she was positioned.
"Anne's been with us three years," Josiah said. "Three years and eight months, to be more exact."
"She lives here?"
Benjamin proffered Edward VI: The Reign of the Forgotten Tudor King. "I loved this one. Well, both of your books, really."
"Where do you want me to sign?"
Benjamin proffered a purple pen. "The title page is fine."
Helen wrote: To Benjamin, It was nice meeting you. Thank you for reading my books! - Helen Franklin
Benjamin handed her the other book, Anne Boleyn: Doomed Queen. On the title page, Helen simply signed her name.
"Thank you, Dr. Franklin," Benjamin said.
Helen turned back to the wall of monitors. The woman—Anne, right?—was turning a page.
"What is she reading?" Josiah asked.
Benjamin shrugged. "Let's see." He sat and pressed a button. The camera zoomed in. "Fingersmith. Sarah Waters. Excellent book."
Anne had long lashes, casting shadows on her cheeks. She glanced up, and Helen's heart froze. She knows we're watching. Anne had dark, dark eyes. Like coals, angry coals.
Anne returned her attention to the book, and Helen looked down at her father. "What is going on?"
Josiah trembled to his feet, until he was standing as tall as he could, three inches above Helen's five feet eight. He placed a hand on Helen's shoulder. "Anne needs your help." Desperation and—yes, panic, panic! tinged his voice.
"What's the incredible present?" Helen asked. Certainly not a woman on a monitor, reading a book.
"Anne's depressed," Benjamin put in.
"I'm not a psychologist," Helen snapped.
Benjamin winked. "Maybe you can reach Anne. No one else can."
"Why would I be any different?"
Josiah swallowed. "Because you're not one of us."
"I don't understand."
Josiah sank back into his wheelchair. He nodded at Benjamin. "Helen and I are going in."
Helen followed her father down another sterile, gray corridor. Florescent lights buzzed above them. Josiah stopped at the third door on the left, a door labeled only by a two letters and a number: TT2. Josiah pressed his hand to a biometric key scanner, and it beeped. The door opened, and Josiah entered. Helen stepped into a room that was just as inviting as the corridor. On the wall facing her was another biometric key scanner. Her father repeated the procedure, but this time, as he rolled into the next room, she noticed him pat his hip. She knew that move. Yalia had done the same thing. Still did, although she had quit the police force. Automatic reflex, checking that the gun was there.
Why in the world did her weakling, almost-dead father have a gun on him? Did the woman reading in bed live here? Nothing made sense.
The next room was the living room from the wall of monitors. Same security guard on the couch.
"Jordan," her father said. "This is my daughter, Helen."
Jordan nodded an unsmiling greeting.
"How's Anne?" Josiah asked.
"Same."
"Anne?" Josiah called, the strength and clarity of his voice surprising Helen. "Anne, it's Josiah. I've brought my daughter."
"She lives here?" Helen asked. "She's lived here for more than three years?"
Josiah said nothing. He continued sitting in his damn robot wheelchair, tension bunching his shoulders. He and Helen waited. And waited.
Helen's patience ran out. "What is going on?"
"I had a script prepared," her father said. "A speech. An explanation. I was going to explain to you—me and Benjamin, we were going to explain to you. You know what people say, the best-laid plans go awry. Best if you see for yourself. Then I'll explain." Josiah beckoned for Helen to follow him. They passed several rooms, which Helen recognized from the monitor. The library had books, stacked top to bottom, and at least ten paintings. The one that caught Helen's eye was perhaps of a green snowman. The door at the end of the hallway was closed, and Josiah knocked on it.
"Anne?" he called.
Nothing.
"I'm coming in, Anne." He waited a moment then twisted the knob as if he knew it would not be locked. Helen felt a sliver of fear. Was her father keeping a woman prisoner? Why would he?
The bed was neatly made, and Anne stood in front of the nightstand. She wore blue jeans and a green polo T-shirt. Helen was drawn to her eyes again. Dark, dark eyes. Angry, vicious eyes. Also, somehow, defeated eyes, like Yalia's weepy, puffy eyes in the bathroom this morning. Yes, this woman was a prisoner.
Anne seemed about the same height as Helen. Where Helen had a few extra pounds on her and was curvy and generous of breast, Anne was almost like a rod, no curves, breasts the size of small apples. Her neck was slender and long, as if she had an extra cervical vertebra.
"Anne," Josiah said, bowing his head.
Anne said nothing. Her hands were clenched into fists.
"This is my daughter, Helen. Helen, I have told Anne so much about you. She has read both your books. Did you enjoy them, Anne? You wouldn't tell me if you did."
Anne's gaze burned into Helen. Hating Helen already.
Helen's heart went out to this Anne. What had her father, these Icarus people, done to traumatize her so?
"Anne, would it be all right if my daughter visited with you for a while?"
Anne betrayed no reaction.
"All right," Josiah said. "I'm going to be in my office. You girls have fun. Take your time." He closed the door softly behind him.
"Hello, Anne," Helen said. "I don't know why I'm here, but I'm here."
Anne looked about forty, too. Her skin was olive-colored but pale, what some people would call sallow or pasty. However, sallow and pasty did not fit Anne, because Anne was lovely. She also had tiny, fine lines around her eyes.
Her eyes.
They really were arresting. Helen had never seen eyes that black. If there were a witch, she would have Anne's eyes. Yalia's eyes were black too, but Anne's were black. Black with double emphasis. Triple emphasis.
Nothing from Anne, just continued clenched fists and a continued suspicious gaze.
"I'm a historian," Helen said, more from nervousness than from an effort to be polite. "Love of history is the only thing I'm glad to have inherited from my father. I specialize in Tudor-era England. I've written a couple of books on the Tudors. Specifically, on Henry VIII's son, Edward VI. He's a neglected part of the family in contemporary study. Granted, nothing much happened while he reigned. He died when he was sixteen, but..." Helen caught herself wandering. "The other book I wrote was on—oh. That's right. You read my books. What did you—"
Helen stopped.
She studied Anne's extra-long neck. The skin on Anne's neck was clear, but her shirt collar could be covering—
Anne.
Anne who? Had Benjamin asked Helen to sign his copies to get her into a proper frame of mind?
Josiah on the phone: Defining moment of your life, Helen. Incredible birthday surprise. Please meet with me.
Little snatches and rumors floated back to Helen. Rustles that Icarus Corp. had been dabbling in making a time travel machine since before Helen was born. Josiah always denied the rumors, had continually claimed time travel was impossible, as much as he would like to think otherwise.
Helen shook off the ridiculous notion that had popped into her head. "I apologize, Anne. I have no idea why I am here. I'm sorry to have bothered you. Goodbye."
Anne said nothing.
Her silence, the apprehension in her eyes, impaled Helen. "Why are you here?" Helen asked. "Are you happy? My father said you've been here three years and eight months."
Anne shook her head. No, I'm not happy, her expression said.
"Who are you, Anne?"
She opened her mouth. What Helen thought Anne said was: "Do you like Starbucks frappies?" Anne spoke slowly, stressing each syllable, as if she was concentrating on making her voice clearer, more legible. She spoke with a French accent, but like with Benjamin, something was off. Something not modern.
Helen concealed her surprise. "Did you ask if I like Starbucks frappies?"
"Do you?"
"Yes. Mocha, no whipped cream, nonfat, please add chocolate drizzle."
Anne's lips curved into a slow smile. She had straight, white teeth. Impossibly white. Dental work? Plain good luck?
"I went to Starbucks a few times," Anne said.
"Do you want to go to Starbucks now?"
"I am not allowed."
"Why not?"
"They are afraid a fade will happen."
"I don't understand."
Anne shrugged, as if to say: "Not my problem."
Frustration knotted Helen's stomach. Frustration at her father, for dumping her here on her birthday with this woman, this Anne, with no explanation whatsoever. No direction. No information. How the hell was this supposed to be a surprise? This Anne woman was delusional. Was this building also some sort of mental facility? Or perhaps Anne was intellectually challenged.
Anne's eyes glazed over. "Benjamin fades also. Worse. His are uncontrollable. But he gets to walk around. I do not."
"The security guard? He's like you?"
Anne nodded.
Helen nodded back, but at what she was nodding, she did not know. "I'm sorry." She had no idea what else to say, what to do, but she stayed, rooted in place. Something strange drew her to Anne, tied her to Anne. Maybe it was the witch eyes, the fear, the voice or the...
The whisper, the tickle of the impossible nudging the back of Helen's mind.
Defining moment of your life.
Helen returned to an earlier topic, a safer topic. "I bet I could persuade my father to let you go out with me. I'll ask. We'll go to Starbucks."
"You can ask. He will say no." Anne's voice was flat. "I am as much prisoner here as I was at home."
"You want to walk out, walk right out."
Anne laughed, high and shrill, startling Helen. "Maybe he will not let you out after today, either."
"Of course he'll let me out. I'm his daughter."
"I used to have a father," Anne murmured. "Parenting back then was different, but some things about human nature remain constant. My father let me and my brother die to save himself. Helen Franklin, do not be so sure your father will release you." Anne uncurled her fists, and Helen found what she was looking for before she was conscious she was searching. The snip of extra finger, like a nail. History had muddled which digit, or if there even was something.
The correct answer was: yes, there was something, on the right little finger. There the nail was, barely noticeable, but there.
Helen stared at it, and Anne stared at it, too. "I wanted it off," Anne said, her voice vacant. "Your father said no. But he did my teeth."
Helen was not sure how long she stared. Maybe only a second, maybe a minute, maybe ten minutes. However long it was, when she came out of her stupor, her knees were wobbly. Fury, astonishment and thrill shook her. She willed her body to steady, but her trembling grew more fierce.
TT2. Time Traveler 2?
Who was TT1? Benjamin?
Could this really be happening?
"Excuse me, Anne," Helen said in as prim a tone she could manage. "I must get back to my father. It was nice to meet you."
*****
Anne made a point to note the time Helen left: two-fifteen p.m., a Saturday. Helen had had been in the room five minutes. Time, so scarce to Anne in 1536, was her friend now. Not the vague concept of time, but concrete, red time, the numbers on her digital clock. Reassuring red time, ones and twos and threes and fours and fives and sixes and sevens and eights and nines. These numbers helped keep her sane and grounded. These numbers helped her measure.
Anne was not sure what to make of her captor's daughter. Helen Franklin was quite beautiful; Regina's pictures had not done her justice. Helen was the kind of woman, whom back in Tudor England, Anne would either have despised, or been secretly in love with, and covered it up by despising her. Modern society was so different. Being attracted to your own sex was okay. You could be open about it. Some people continued to label being homosexual a sin, but being true to yourself was more important in many groups of society. Gay and lesbian books were easily available. Anne had never kissed a woman like the women in these books kissed women. She had never touched a woman in that way, and she wondered if one day she would have the freedom to do so.
She wondered if she would know what to do with that freedom, if she would be too scared to take advantage of it.
Anne, her first year here, had read both of Helen's books. She had read many, many Tudor books, actually. She had also viewed Tudor films and television shows. Josiah, Benjamin and Regina wanted her to, and Anne agreed. Picking her battles. Mostly she skimmed the Tudor books. If nothing else, the books, movies and shows helped her pick up modern English. They hoped she would comment on what she read or saw, make some remark. Anne did not. Again, picking her battles. The books, the poor pitiful ignorant books. And they were better than the movies and shows! The books got much wrong, and they were bare bones, scratching the surface as if only the surface existed. And what the books got right…Anne particularly hated reading about her stepdaughter, Mary, known to the world now as the namesake of the alcoholic drink Bloody Mary. Anne had been horrid to Mary. Anne had been petty, jealous, vindictive, and Mary had died a wretch, unhappy, no doubt realizing that the swollen tumor in her stomach was not her long-awaited child and that her non-Catholic half-sister, the witch's daughter, would be queen.
Elizabeth...Elizabeth.
Precocious Elizabeth, Anne's sole survivor, molded in the image of Henry VIII. The books said that when Elizabeth was an adult, she made people weep because she looked so much like her father. Elizabeth had been smart not to marry, not to cede her power and control to a husband. Or maybe she had been dumb not to allow herself the happiness and the pleasure of love, duty to her country be damned. After all, this was the country that killed her own mother, hapless, alive Anne.
Had been smart. Had been dumb.
Anne felt another weeping spell coming on. Had been. Had been!
Dear God. How could she be alive and well, and her daughter four hundred and nine years dead? The woman who sat on the British throne today was Elizabeth II, no direct relation of Elizabeth I. Or of Henry VIII, for that matter. For all of her husband's obsessing about male heirs, his genes lasted a pitiful generation. The royal family today was directly descended from Henry's elder sister, Margaret. Still, Anne liked the fact that the British queen's name was Elizabeth. Sometimes Anne pretended that Elizabeth Alexandra Mary Windsor was her own Elizabeth Tudor. Sometimes Anne pretended that Elizabeth's four children were her own grandchildren, and that Elizabeth's only daughter, the Princess Royal Anne, had been named after her dear old grandmother Anne Boleyn.
Now the clock read two-twenty. Anne set the clock face down and got her drawing pad and pencils. She would sketch a draft for tomorrow's painting. At the top of a fresh sheet, she wrote:
London, the morning of May 19, 1536
She drew a woman pretending to be asleep. Herself. She had been worrying then that she would soil her garments in front of her execution crowd. That would not do. She was a queen, so she was determined to die with grace and dignity. With her bladder and bowels intact. She lay in bed and kept her eyes shut, lest she sense the creeping fingers of the sun. Lady Boleyn, her aunt by marriage, and Lady Kingston, wife of the constable of the tower, lay near her. Maybe they were pretending to sleep, too. In her head, Anne recited the sentences, polishing her last words: "Good Christian people, I am come hither to die, according to the law, for by the law I am judged to die, and therefore I will speak nothing against it."
The words were acceptable. Not what she wanted to say, because she was innocent. However, for the welfare of her daughter, Anne had to keep pledging her allegiance to the king and air no protestation about her sham of a trial. Elizabeth would not suffer for her mother's so-called sins. Anne continued in her head, lacing her words with double meaning and sarcasm: "But I pray God save the king and send him long to reign over you. For a gentler nor a more merciful prince was there never, and to me he was ever a good, a gentle and sovereign lord. And if any person will meddle me of my cause I require them to judge the best. And thus I take my leave of the world and of you all, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me."
At this time she would draw a confident breath and kneel. Eyes clear, head held high. An innocent woman. Innocent woman found guilty of incest with her brother and of other adulterous acts.
No, she would not kneel just yet. She needed to be blindfolded. Before that, she would look into the crowd one last time, into the eyes of Englishmen and Englishwomen who brought food and their children. She would curse these people with her eyes, dare them to picnic over her spilled blood. Maybe they would behave with grace, as they had after her brother's death only two days before. The memory of George—handsome George, dead George, innocent George—forced Anne's eyes open.
Still dark. No sun. By nine o' clock a.m., she would be dead. She should be dead now. The execution had been postponed twice. Yesterday, at eight in the morning, she was supposed to have been beheaded. Then at noon yesterday, but the executioner from Calais was still delayed. Pray deliver me to you this morn, dear Lord. The waiting was more agonizing than the prospect of being without her head.
Anne pictured herself kneeling. What would her very, very last words be? Something ordinary? Something such as: "To Christ I commend my soul. Jesu, receive my soul..." And then the blow of the sword, would she hear its whoosh?—and her slender neck, formerly covered with love and kisses from His Majesty, would be no more.
"The sun." The whisper rose from Lady Kingston.
George, dear brother, not long now. "The sun," Anne echoed. She felt the eyes on her, their presence stronger than ever. Not the gazes of Lady Boleyn and Lady Kingston, but the demon eyes. Anne was not sure what else to call them. She had felt them all her life. Invisible, watchful, curious, keen eyes on her. Not God's implacable eyes, but hungry, ravenous eyes. Some people said she was a witch; she had the devil's paw mark, the size of a strawberry, on her neck. A faint mark, quite faint, easy to cover with makeup. But there. She also had that twig of a sixth finger on her right hand. Maybe these people were right. Maybe she was a witch. She floated a silent prayer. Help me, whoever thou art. Help me die. Not tomorrow, but today. This morning. I cannot endure any longer. Deliver me to my paradise.
Anne dressed in a crimson kirtle first. Then a black damask gown, set off by a wide white collar. She must keep calm and composed. No matter what Henry declared, she was queen of England, mother of a legitimate heir. And she was innocent. God knew. Henry knew too. He had to.
To Christ I commend my soul. Jesu, receive my soul...
She turned to ask one of her ladies to bring a hood of black velvet. But the room was empty. Anne blinked. How? The guards had not—
"Your Majesty."
Anne jumped at the voice, a man's. It was deep and gravelly, and different, and behind her. The Lord God? Anne's neck throbbed. Not the Lord God. No. The eyes. The invisible eyes were going to save her.
Anne turned to meet the owner of the voice. She beheld a light, a glorious white light. A man stepped out. Anne could not perceive him well, for the light was most dazzling.
"Will you come, Your Majesty?" The man held out his right hand, and Anne's neck throbbed again. Was this man proof she was a witch and indeed deserved to die?
"Your Majesty." The man smiled, and his teeth—his teeth! White, straight, and without gaps. A desperate giggle escaped Anne, and she clamped her mouth shut. She was a queen. She would behave with grace and dignity, even if she was a witch.
Anne took the man's hand and stepped into the light.
Yalia signed her name to Helen's birthday card. The card, store-bought, showed a balloon on the front. The pre-printed inside message read: To my lovely wife, happy birthday!
Helen had left almost two hours ago. Odd old rich man, that Josiah Franklin, but at least he had given Yalia the opportunity to run to the store and get a card. Helen would be gone a while. After Yalia quit the police force, she and Helen moved to Front Royal. The town was an hour and twenty minutes from D.C., and that was when traffic was good. Today was Saturday, but you never knew with D.C.-area traffic.
To my lovely wife, happy birthday! Yalia mentally adjusted the message so it would read: To my lovely soon-to-be ex-wife, happy birthday!
Yalia replayed Helen's anguish from the night before. The fear, the apprehension in Helen's green eyes. The wavering in her voice. The dread in Yalia's own soul. Helen had had enough, and there was no way Yalia could explain, no way she could make Helen understand.
Because they were over. No two ways about it. The end had come like a turtle, slow, but steady and purposeful. The end had become blacker, more fearsome, more sure with each day that passed after the shooting. Yalia did not blame Helen for clocking out of their marriage. Yalia had broken a huge promise, broken Helen's heart. And Yalia had pretended she did not want sex anymore, that she did not feel the need to cuddle, to be with Helen anymore. To be with anyone anymore. Nothing was wrong with that, Yalia had told herself many times. Helen would adapt. She would adjust. She would grow to feel the same. They did not need human children. The dogs were enough. Hell, if Helen wanted variety, they could throw in a couple of cats, a couple of bunnies. Yalia wanted Helen to shut up about counselors, about therapy, about doctors, about date nights. Date nights: did Helen think Yalia was a prostitute? That if Yalia was replete with good food and drink, she'd spread her legs? Expose her dry, withered pussy? Magically forget she had killed a child? His face was the first thing Yalia saw when she fell asleep. When she woke up. She could not imagine that changing.
Yalia bit her lip. Withered pussy was not exactly true. The past year or so, she had tried to masturbate. And she had come a few times. Maybe more than a few. Every time, really. Sometimes the shooting flashed in her mind, but more often than not, she was safe from memories while she jilled off. The masturbation was not borne of sexual desire, per se, but more of a desire to escape. To become something, and someone else, for a few minutes. Before the shooting, Helen and Yalia always slept naked. After the shooting, Yalia started sleeping clothed. After a while, Helen followed her lead. Many nights, Yalia had wanted to reach out and touch Helen. To kiss her. To sneak her hands into Helen's underwear, or guide Helen's hands to Yalia's breasts.
Yalia had been unable to. Simply unable to. And now we're over. We're done. Fork's stuck in us. Yalia imagined a solid, substantial fork: silver, perhaps six feet long. No, she would make the fork gold. Stop. Stop. Yalia hurt all over. Last night, after Helen's announcement, Yalia felt like a weight was smacking her into a pancake. It was an awakening of sorts, screaming: "You're screwing up your life. The best person, the best woman, you will ever know is going to leave you. The love of your life is leaving you, and why in fuck are you letting it happen?"
Louis popped into Yalia's mind. Tell Helen you love her, Louis said. Tell her you want to have children with her. Because you do. You know you do.
Yalia blinked three times. Go away. Mercifully, he did. Many times, he did not. A few times, he told Yalia what he was up to in heaven. Of course, that was not Louis really, just Yalia's imaginings, Yalia being haunted.
Yalia hated what the shooting had done to her. She and her partner, Curt, responded to a domestic violence call. A stepfather, a paranoid delusional, sat on a kitchen chair. In his lap was his six-year-old stepson, whom the father was calling Satan. At the six-year-old's temple was a gun. Held by dear old Daddy.
The boy's mother, a few paces from her husband and son, cried and pleaded to no avail. Her face was bruised, and she refused police orders to leave the house. It happened like this, Yalia thought, as if she had not been there. The man swiveled the gun onto his wife. Curt fired, hitting the man. Yalia fired a nanosecond later, nanosecond enough for the man to twist his six-year-old Satan stepson into the line of fire.
A shooting, a dead child. Was it any wonder Yalia did not want children anymore? Why was Helen sticking around, for Christ's sake? Helen needed to find someone more deserving of her than Yalia was. Helen, she was special. Very. She would be a wonderful mother.
"Woof! Woof! Woof!" Luigi, probably at the mail truck.
I love Helen. I do. And she's leaving me. Was she, Yalia Rose Yamato, going to let her wife leave without a fight? She could have children. She knew she could. She wanted to. Perhaps the time had come to stop punishing herself.
Yalia studied the card. Damn that card-balloon. This was the best she could do? She grabbed a piece of red construction paper. She would make her wife's card herself.
*****
Yalia finished the birthday card for Helen fifteen minutes later, but it felt incomplete. Yalia rummaged through her art scraps bag and found glitter. That will do. She added the glitter and let the dogs out. A light snow was falling, reminding Yalia of the glitter on the card.
Yalia loved watching the dogs. Could watch them all day. They were her best escape from reality. The four dogs had developed their little gang. Their little way of relating to one another. They went everywhere together. Slept together. They were all mutts but looked nothing alike. Mario, the eldest dog at nine years (chronologically, not in dog years) seemed to be mostly Labrador retriever but with some Dalmatian. Toad, eight years old, was ugly. No way around it. He was tiny, mostly hairless and was missing a few teeth. Yalia had gotten Toad last year from the SPCA. She had seen in his ugliness what she felt deep in her own soul. Toad was sweet, though. Extremely. Helen had said nothing about the new dog except to ask his name. She flinched, yes, because dang, Toad was ugly, but Helen said nothing.
Luigi was seven years old and had the best brown eyes ever. Bowser, the sweetheart and the baby at five years old, was fat and cuddly.
Yalia loved them all. She would die for them. They were better therapy than the chirpy happy Bo Peep the police had made her see after Louis's death.
She checked the time on her cell. When would Helen be back? Why had her father summoned her? Josiah never had made a big deal of birthdays. Do I have time to run back out and get maybe a cake, ice cream? A present, not just a card?
Helen would like that. Would really like it. But the gesture might send a signal Yalia was not sure she wanted to send. She did love Helen, and so maybe she should let Helen go. She should not fight for her wife. Yalia had put Helen through enough.
Yalia realized something. She did not know Louis's birthday. Odd, wasn't it? She had shot him. She had ended his life. And she did not know his birthday. Google would probably tell her, so Yalia pulled up the search engine on her phone. She typed: Louis Joseph Gambalta hostage killed by D.C. police birthday when?
Yalia had to click on a few links, but she had her answer at last: July 2.
*****
Helen barged into Josiah's office. "What the hell? You invented a time machine and snatched Anne Boleyn?"
Josiah ran a hand through the remnants of his hair. "Essentially, yes. Aren't you happy?"
Helen let out a shriek. "Why would I be?"
"Anne Boleyn. Your life's work."
"That shows how much you know me. My primary focus is Edward VI, my secondary—"
"Anne Boleyn!" Josiah was gleeful.
"You don't screw around with the space-time continuum!" Benjamin. Benjamin was Benjamin Franklin, but he had lost weight. Gotten contacts. Made sense. He was an indirect ancestor of hers, a many times great-uncle or something. No wonder Benjamin had freedom. Josiah Franklin worshipped the man. Hell, good old Ben was probably in charge of the whole shebang. And I thought he was a simple security guard.
"We saved Anne's life," Josiah was saying. "We got her the morning of her execution."