Free Strong Motion by Jonathan Franzen

splashed liquor on the wall. Nor was it hard to see blood. There were traces of it in the sutures between the squares of marble, hardly browned, the nail-polish redness especially visible where the edges of the squares were chipped. Who had cleaned things up? The maid, before her deportation? With his fingertips he pressed on the cold, unyielding marble, putting his body’s weight on it, hearing clearly the whock! of the splitting head.
    “Louis. For God’s sake. What are you doing?”
    He jumped to his feet. His mother was approaching the bar. “Dropped a coin,” he said.
    “You have a morbid interest?”
    “No, no, I just happened to come inside this way.”
    “You came in—?” Melanie shook her head at the French doors as if they were a grievous disappointment to her. “This house,” she said, “has no security whatsoever. I suppose she expected the pyramid to protect against burglars too. That’s very logical and rational, don’t you think? That’s par for the course.”
    Louis heard a faint tinkling in a toilet behind a wall.
    “Well. You see where she died.” His mother crossed her arms and gazed up at the liquor bottles with satisfaction. “Personally, I can’t think of anything tackier than putting a full-sized bar like this in your living room. Or do you not agree. Maybe you think everyone should have a saloon in their living room. And a bee.”
    She looked at Louis as if she actually expected him to reply. “The insult on the injury,” she continued, “is that she probably had it installed with money that didn’t belong to her. I don’t suppose you missed what Mr. Rudman was saying. That she forged a title to this house to borrow money on. What do you think of that, Louis? Do you think that’s proper? Do you think that’s OK?” With a beautifully shod toe she flipped up one end of a Chinese rug, tilted her head to read the label, and flipped the end down again. She sneered at a coffee table. “Harmonic Lifestyles. Phoenician Deities. Orgone Redux.” She made a gagging, dismissive face. “What do you think of all this, Louis?”
    “I think I’m going to scream if you ask me another question like that.”
    “Every single thing I see here makes me sick. Sick . She said this to the portrait above the fireplace."
    “But it’s all yours now, right?”
    “Effectively. Yes.”
    “What are you going to do with it?”
    “I have no idea. I came in here to tell you that you’re making Mr. Rudman and me very nervous lurking around like this. You couldn’t find your father?”
    “No.”
    “Well, if you want to stay, you can be in the back room, there’s a TV in there, maybe you can find a game on. There’s lots of food in the refrigerator, you can help yourself. Or you could sweep the patio for me, and I have a few other little jobs for someone, but I do not just want you lurking around. This isn’t your house, you know.”
    Louis looked at her with neutral expectancy, as if she were a chess opponent who’d made a move he wanted to be sure she wasn’t going to change her mind about. Then, the arbitrary grace period expiring, he said, “You have a good lunch on Thursday?”
    “It was a business lunch. I thought I explained that to you at the time.”
    “What did you eat?”
    “I don’t remember, Louis.”
    “You don’t remember? That was three days ago! Piece of fish? Reuben sandwich?”
    They could hear Mr. Rudman handling dishes in the kitchen now, whistling a show tune.
    “What is it that you want?” Melanie asked levelly.
    “I want to know what you had for lunch on Thursday.”
    She took a deep breath, trying to contain her annoyance. “I don’t remember.”
    He scrunched up his face. “You serious?”
    “Louis—” She waved a hand, trying to suggest some generic entree, something not worth mentioning. “I don’t remember, a piece of fish, yes. Filet of sole. I’m extremely busy.”
    “Filet of sole . Filet of sole .” He nodded so emphatically, it was like