"I think that's the first honest thing you've said tonight. No, I'm sure you don't understand. I'm sure it's all completely beyond you." He shook his head. "What did you really come here for?" he said.
"Wait. Back up. I want to know about Margie."
"You've heard all you're going to hear from me. I want to know what you came here for."
"I just wanted to talk."
"About what?"
"Anything you wanted to talk about. We used to be so close and-"
"Stop. Stop," Cadmus said. "I'm squirming, listening to this crap. I'll ask you one more time: what did you come here for? You answer me truthfully or get the hell out of here and don't ever come back." He leaned up out of the pillow. "And when I say that, I mean it. Don't ever come back."
Mitchell nodded. "Okay," he said quietly. "So… it's simple. I want to find the Barbarossas."
"Now we get to it," Cadmus said. For the first time in the conversation he looked genuinely pleased. "Go on."
"Garrison says there's a book-"
"Does he indeed?"
"-some kind of journal, which your first wife told him about."
"Kitty didn't know how to keep her mouth shut."
"So this book exists?"
"Oh yes. It exists."
"I came here to get it."
"I don't have it, son."
Mitchell leaned closer to his grandfather. "Where is it?" he said again. "Come on. Tell me. I've been honest with you."
"And I'm returning the compliment. I don't have it. And even if I did, I wouldn't give it to you."
"Why the hell not? What do you care what we do to those people?"
"By we you mean this family?" He narrowed his watery eyes. "Are you planning a war, Mitch? Because if you are, don't. You don't know what you're taking on."
"I know the Barbarossas have got some kind of hold over us."
"They have more than a hold," Cadmus said, his voice emotionless. "They own us. And let me tell you, we're lucky, we are very lucky, to have been left alone all these years. Because if they took it into their heads to come after us, we wouldn't stand a chance."
"Are they Mafia?"
"Oh Lord, wouldn't that be nice? If they were just men with guns."
"So who are they?"
"I don't know," the old man replied. "But I'm afraid I'm going to find out, the moment my heart stops beating."
"Don't say that."
"Does it make you nervous?" Cadmus said. "It should." His eyes were shiny with tears. "There's more to this than you'll ever get your head round, son, so for your own sake, let it go. Don't let Garrison pull you into this mess. He's got no other option, you see. He was born into it. But you… you can walk away if you want to. Save yourself. God knows it's too late for me. And for your brother. And of course your wife-"
"She hasn't a clue about any of this."
"She's theirs," Cadmus said flatly. "All the women are. I sometimes think that's what's saved us from being wiped out. Galilee likes the Geary women. The Geary women like Galilee." He pressed his fingers to his pale lips, and wiped away some spittle. "I lost Kitty to him. Long before the cancer got her, she was gone from me. Then I lost Loretta. That's hard to take. I loved them both, but it wasn't enough."
Mitchell put his head in his hands. "Garrison said they weren't like us," he murmured.
"He's right and he's wrong. I think they're more like us than not. But they're also more than we could ever be." The tears began to tumble down his cheeks. "I suppose I should be comforted by that. I didn't stand a chance against the likes of him. Nothing I could have done for my wives would ever have been enough. He had them the moment he laid eyes on them."
"Don't cry. Pops," Mitchell said. "Please."
"I cry all the time, take no notice."
Mitchell moved closer to the bed. "Let me be a part of this," he said, his voice soft and full. "Please. I know you think I'm a fuckup… but… it's just because nothing's ever been clear to me. Nobody ever took the time to explain. So I just looked the other way. I pretended I didn't care. But I do. Pops, I do. I want to know who these people are; I want to make them suffer the way you've suffered."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because you're my grandson and I won't be responsible for sending you to your death."
"Why are you so afraid of them?"
"Because I'm almost dead, son. And if I've got an eternal soul, it's in a lot of trouble. I don't want you on my conscience. It's already heavy enough."
Mitchell drew a deep breath. "All right," he said, rising from the chair. "I don't know what else to say. You've got your agenda, I've got mine."
"Christ, son, listen to yourself," Cadmus said softly. "This isn't a business deal that's going sour. This is our lives."
"You made us that way, Pops," Mitchell said. "You taught Dad, and Dad taught us: business before pleasure. Business before anything."
"I was wrong," Cadmus said. "You won't hear me admit that ever again, but I was wrong." Mitchell stood at the door for a moment, and stared at the stick figure in the bed.
"Goodnight, Pops."
"Wait," the old man said.
"What?"
"Do this for me," Cadmus said. "Wait until I'm in the ground. You won't have to wait long, believe me. Just… wait until I'm gone. Please."
"If I agree to that-"
"More business?"
"If I agree to that, you have to tell me where the journal is."
Cadmus closed his eyes again, and for several seconds Mitchell was marooned at the door, not knowing whether to leave or stay. At last, the old man drew a creaking breath, and said:
"All right. Have it your way. I gave the journal to Margie."
"That's what Garrison thought. But he couldn't find it."
"Then ask Loretta. Or your wife. Maybe Margie passed it on. But just you remember… I told you to walk away. I warned you, and you didn't want to hear."
"I'm sure that's got you a place in heaven. Pops," Mitchell said. "Goodnight."
The stick man didn't answer. He was weeping again, quietly. Mitchell didn't offer any further words of consolation. As his grandfather had said, old men weep; there was nothing to be done about it.
One by one, all the secrets are coming out like stars at twilight. Just for the record, Cadmus's claim about Garrison's wife having borne him a black child is at least partially true. She indeed became pregnant, but the child didn't live. She miscarried in the fifth month, and the few people who knew that the infant brought dead from her body was black were paid off handsomely for their silence. Garrison, as Cadmus said, assumed it was Galilee's child. That was perhaps the profoundest error he ever made; one which goes to the heart of all that he is; and more pertinently, all he must in time become.
As for Margie, I can't tell you with any certainty what information she was given when she recovered; though I think it's more than likely that she was never told that her womb had produced such a heresy. Cadmus certainly didn't want any disruptions in the equilibrium of the family; he surely kept the knowledge to the smallest possible circle of people. And Garrison had no reason to tell a single souclass="underline" all the sight of that dead child did-yes, he saw the corpse; he made a point of going to the morgue and looking at it, all wrapped in its tiny shroud-all that sight did was deepen the divide between himself and his wife. The first stone on the road that led to Margie's death was laid that day. There's more to tell of this matter, of course; but some stars take longer to show themselves than others. The paradox is this: that the darker it gets, the more of these secrets we can see. Eventually, they're arrayed in all their glory; and it's the very things we hid from sight, the things we're most ashamed of, that we use to steer our course.