Chapter 2 - Uncle Sebastian
I read the words twice.
Grace read them once and looked away.
"Who wrote that?" I asked.
Olivia's chin lifted.
For a second, I thought she might answer.
Instead, she took Sophie's hand and pulled her toward the sink to wash flour from their fingers.
Grace touched my sleeve.
"You promised."
I looked down at her hand until she removed it.
"I know what I promised."
"Then keep it even when it's hard."
There were men in Brooklyn who would have crossed the street rather than speak to me that way.
I almost laughed at the absurdity of it.
"You give orders to everyone you work for?"
"Only the ones who are scaring children without meaning to."
That landed cleanly.
I stepped into the hall.
Mrs. Donnelly was coming toward me with a stack of folded towels in her arms. Sixty-three years old, silver hair twisted into the same knot she had worn for twenty-five years, she had worked for my parents before she ever worked for me. She had known me when I was eleven and still afraid of thunder.
"You look terrible," she said.
"Thank you."
"You know what I mean."
"Where's Sebastian been today?"
The towels shifted slightly in her arms.
"In and out."
"Doing what?"
"I don't keep a ledger of your brother's movements."
It was a strange answer because I had not accused her of keeping one.
"Was he here this afternoon?"
"Since lunch, I believe."
"And before lunch?"
She frowned. "Dominic."
"Humor me."
"He left around nine. Came back before twelve."
"Alone?"
"Yes."
She shifted the towels again.
I watched her face.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Mrs. Donnelly."
"Don't use that voice on me. I powdered your backside."
Under different circumstances I might have smiled.
"Did he say where he went?"
"No."
She walked past me, then stopped.
"The girls sang today."
"I know."
Her eyes softened.
"Isabelle used to sing that song when she brushed their hair."
I had forgotten.
No. That was not true.
I had not forgotten. I had simply not been there enough to hear it often.
The realization made something inside me pull tight.
At six fifty-five, I went downstairs.
Dinner in our house had become a performance after Isabelle died. The dining room was too large, the ceiling too high, the table built for fourteen people who rarely came. The girls sat together at one end, usually moving food around their plates until someone excused them.
That night I had Mrs. Donnelly serve dinner in the kitchen.
Sebastian walked in at seven ten.
He stopped when he saw the table set for six.
"We having a picnic?"
"Sit down."
Grace was helping Nora cut chicken into pieces. She looked up at me, then Sebastian, and I saw the question in her face.
I gave her nothing.
Sebastian took the chair across from Sophie.
She immediately slid closer to Olivia.
He noticed.
"Hey, bug," he said softly. "You mad at me?"
Sophie stared at her plate.
"Leave her alone," I said.
Sebastian looked at me.
"I asked if she's mad, not for her tax returns."
"She doesn't want to answer."
"She hasn't answered anybody in over a year."
Grace's fork stopped halfway to her mouth.
I watched Sebastian realize what he had said.
His expression changed into concern.
"Sorry. Bad joke."
Nobody laughed.
I asked about a construction site in Queens.
He gave me numbers, delays, names.
We talked business for nine minutes while my daughters ate in silence.
Then Nora knocked over her milk.
Sebastian moved automatically, grabbing a napkin and leaning across the table.
Nora screamed.
It was one sharp sound.
A raw animal sound.
Then she clapped both hands over her own mouth as if she had broken a rule.
Sebastian froze with the napkin in his hand.
Grace pushed back her chair and crouched beside Nora.
"It's okay. The milk is okay. You're okay."
Nora shook so hard the tablecloth moved where her knees touched it.
Sebastian slowly sat back.
"I wasn't going to touch her."
Nobody had said he was.
Olivia slid off her chair.
She took Nora's hand and led her toward the pantry.
Sophie followed.
Grace started after them.
"Stay," I said.
Grace stopped.
I looked at Sebastian.
"Why is she afraid of you?"
His eyes hardened.
"She's three. She's afraid of the vacuum cleaner."
"She screamed when you reached for her."
"She screams? That's news to me."
"Don't."
He dropped the napkin on the table.
"Don't what?"
"Make me sound crazy before I say anything."
The kitchen went still except for the refrigerator motor.
Sebastian leaned back.
"Fine. Say it."
I wanted to.
God, I wanted to.
I wanted to put the photograph on the table and watch his face while I told him Sophie had named him.
But there were three children ten feet away listening from behind a pantry door.
And there was a possibility, however small, that I was about to accuse my brother of murdering my wife based on the fractured memory of a five-year-old child who had not spoken in fourteen months.
"Where were you the morning Isabelle died?" I asked.
Sebastian's face emptied.
Not innocence.
Not guilt.
Calculation.
"You've asked me that before."
"Answer again."
"Queens. Maspeth yard."
"All morning?"
"Until you called me."
"Who saw you?"
"Half the yard."
"Names."
He stared at me.
"What is this?"
"Names."
"Eddie Tran. Mikey Salerno. Luis. Tommy. Take your pick."
I knew all four.
Two were dead now. One was in Florida. One still worked for us.
Sebastian stood.
"I'm not doing this at dinner."
"Sit down."
"No."
The old reflex woke in me. The one that required every room to bend when I pushed.
I stood too.
Grace stepped between us without actually moving into the space. She simply placed one hand on the back of Nora's abandoned chair.
"The girls can hear you."
That stopped me.
Sebastian looked at her.
"You seem very comfortable here for someone who's been employed eight weeks."
Grace's face went still.
"Seb."
He looked back at me.
"What?"
"Leave her out of it."
His mouth tightened.
"Gladly."
He walked toward the door.
From inside the pantry came a whisper.
"Blue car."
Sebastian stopped.
So did I.
Olivia stood in the doorway, one arm around Nora.
She looked directly at my brother.
May you like
"Mommy told us to get down."
Sebastian's face lost all color.
