I took a big sip of wine, tried to lighten up, align my own chakras, whatever, and continued downstairs.
My mother was the most open, honest person I knew. She couldn’t keep a secret to save her life, or so I’d always thought. Was something going on between her and Abraham? Clearly the answer was yes. The real question was-what was going on between her and Abraham?
And did I really want to know the answer?
“Nothing’s going on,” I told myself, then repeated it a few times. Of course there was nothing going on. Mom and Dad had been sweethearts ever since they’d met at the tie-dyed T-shirt booth during a Grateful Dead weekend blowout at the Ventura Fairgrounds in 1972. We’d heard the story often enough to recite it by heart.
Mom was nineteen, Dad was twenty-two. Mom wore frayed, button-fly cutoffs with a short, tight T-shirt that read like an advertisement for a local motel. BED & BECKY, it said. And yes, Mom’s name is Becky. We all figured Dad was probably stoned, not to mention turned on, but he insisted he was enchanted by her sweet, natural spirit.
They made their early years together sound like a fairy tale. But the bottom line was, my parents were still lovey-dovey to this day. They’d stayed together through good times and bad, through six kids and major moves and family issues and commune politics. The very idea that Mom and Abraham were… no. Ugh. Not that I didn’t love Abraham but… no, forget it.
I know it sounds sappy, but deep down inside, I liked to think my parents represented the possibility of everlasting love. Meaning, maybe someday, I might experience my own version of that. It had eluded me so far, but it could happen.
I took another fortifying gulp of wine, banished all thoughts of Mom and… you know, and kept going.
When I reached the basement level, I followed the signs and arrows pointing the way to Conservation and Restoration. After several series of switchbacks and two sets of double doors, I finally ended up at one end of a long, deserted hallway. There were doors on both sides of the hall, probably twenty all together. These were the book restorers’ workrooms. Every door was closed.
“Abraham?” I called.
Nothing.
I supposed he was intent on keeping the priceless Faust under wraps and behind closed doors, so I would have to hunt him down. I finished off the glass of wine before trying the handle on the first door. It was locked. Same for the next three. The fifth door was unlocked but the room was completely empty.
The next door opened easily.
Every light was on full blast. The room was glaringly bright. Papers were scattered everywhere. Tools and brushes lay in disarray on the counters and on the floor. Cabinet drawers were pulled out and upturned. A high stool lay on the floor next to the center worktable.
What a mess. I stepped inside to look around.
That was when I saw Abraham, lying on the cold cement floor. A pool of dark liquid seeped from under him.
“Oh my God.” My glass slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor. Spots began to spin in front of my eyes. I sucked in a breath, ran over and fell on my knees by his side.
“Abraham!”
His arms were wrapped tightly around his chest. Alive? Please, God, alive.
I was screaming, couldn’t help it.
“Abraham. Wake up.” I tried to pull him into my arms, but he was so heavy I couldn’t budge him. “Oh, please don’t die.”
I grabbed his shoulders and shook him hard before I realized that was a bad idea. I leaned over and held him close to me. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you? Oh God, I’m sorry, so sorry.”
I felt him stir.
His eyelids fluttered, and I almost fainted with relief. “Oh God, you’re alive. Thank you. I’ll get help. Don’t worry.”
He gazed up at me, his eyes blurry. He coughed, then muttered something.
I leaned closer. “What?”
“De-vil,” he whispered. His arms relaxed around his chest and his jacket loosened.
“What are you saying?”
He coughed again. “Remember… the… devil.”
A thick, heavy book slipped out from inside his jacket. I quickly snatched it before it slid onto the bloody floor. Instinct, I guess, ingrained in me from childhood. Save the book. I gaped at the faded black leather binding. Once-elegant gold tooling created a pale border of fleur-de-lis around the front edges of the cover, and each flower point was studded with bloodred gems. Rubies? Ornate but rusted brass clasps in the shape of claws held the book closed.
Goethe’s Faust.
My gaze darted back to Abraham. His lips trembled as he formed a slight smile.
I shoved the book inside my suit jacket.
He nodded his head in approval. At least, I thought it was a nod. Then his eyes glazed over and flickered closed.
“No.” I grabbed his jacket. “No. Don’t you dare. Abraham. Wake up. Oh God. Don’t-”
His head slumped to the side.
“No! No, please-”
“Let him go.”
“Yikes!” I snatched my hands away. Abraham sagged to the floor. I stared at my hands. They were covered in blood. I screamed again.