Free Quarantine: A Novel by John Smolens

stocking, which he held at arm’s length, as though it were some venomous reptile, and then he summarily dropped
    it on the floor. “And then,” she added, “there’s what you did to the portrait of my great-grandfather.”
    “I didn’t care for his mustache. He needed a beard.”
    “So you gave him one.”
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    q u a r a n t i n e
    “Call it an artistic impulse.” Cautiously, he touched his big
    toe, which was plump and red. “This has been sore for days. Do
    you suppose I’m developing gout, like father?”
    “You seemed determined to destroy everything this family
    holds dear—”
    “Dishes and bowls, Grandmother.” He must have realized
    how dismissive he sounded, because he glanced up from his foot,
    trying to appear contrite. “I concede my embellishments of my
    great-great-grandfather’s portrait might have been in poor taste.”
    He leaned over for a closer inspection his ailing toe.
    “Stop toying with your foot,” she demanded, and when he looked up this time, startled and perhaps even alarmed, she
    glanced at Cedella. “When you got older, destroying family
    heirlooms wasn’t enough.”
    Samuel nodded amiably, relieved that they could finally come
    to agreement. “True, but often a maid’s virtue was offered so
    willingly I couldn’t resist.”
    “Which was why your father thought sending you to France
    might curtail such impulses—”
    “He said it would ‘broaden my horizons,’ and it did, indeed.”
    He studied Cedella with disinterested curiosity. “Grandmother,
    it’s only a maid, not an heirloom.” The girl’s hand moved ever so slightly, causing Samuel to raise his arms as though salvation had been delivered by divine intervention. “Look, she lives! No harm done. She’s going to make a full recovery.” He smiled at Miranda, his eyes lit with boyish delight.
    Miranda folded her arms. “Miss you?” she said almost to
    herself. “I, miss you?”There was the sound of a carriage, pulling up in front of the house, and Samuel suddenly appeared helpless
    and afraid.
    “Yes, that’ll be your father,” Miranda said as she stepped
    around the maid, whose skirts had risen up her legs, exposing her calves. “He may well render you unconscious, as well. But I’m
    confident, my dear, you’ll make a full recovery.”
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    j o h n s m o l e n s
    There was the sound of hobbling footsteps and a tapping cane
    coming up the front walk, and then the door was thrown open
    against the wall, causing the china to rattle in the cabinet.
    “Where is he?” Enoch shouted.
    He came down the hall and entered the dining room. Samuel
    got up from the chair but could barely put his weight on his
    swollen left foot.
    “I met your repeated demands for money,” Enoch said, “but it
    wasn’t enough—so you come back here for the rest?”
    He lifted his cane and brought it down on Samuel’s shoulder.
    Samuel waddled barefoot around the dining room table, his hands
    raised to protect his head. His father, who was often plagued
    by gout, limped after him, swinging his cane, the stick making
    a whooshing sound as it passed through the air, and they went
    around the table in this manner several times. Miranda was
    screaming and father and son were shouting. At one end of the
    room, they had to negotiate around the maid, who still lay unconscious on the floor. Finally, both men were so winded that they
    paused at opposite ends of the long table, gasping for air.
    Fields arrived with a pitcher of Madeira and glasses on a silver tray. Enoch served himself, his hands shaking. “Fields,” he said,
    “bring me the key to the gun cabinet.”
    Fields said, “I’m afraid it’s been misplaced, sir.”
    “The hell it has.” Enoch drained his glass. “My beloved mother
    put you up to this.”
    “They’ll be no bloodshed in this house,” Miranda said. “Not
    without mysay-so.”
    Enoch seemed to notice Cedella for the first time. With the tip
    of his cane he pushed her skirt up until her knees