Free Jack Be Nimble: Gargoyle by Ben English Page A

you got off the plane.” He tried to sound jovial, but Mercedes knew him well enough to hear behind the forced gallantry of his concern. She might be losing a father, but the old man next to her was losing a child. Maybe. Not for sure. Even the doctors didn’t know for sure.
    “Sorry, Grampa.” She managed to smile. “I was just thinking ‘bout Dad.”
    “Me, too, plum.” His thick finger stabbed at the CD control, and the sharp-edged, opening chords of a rolling blues piece filled the brief pocket of air in the convertible. “But I’m sure glad you could come up and see us. I ever tell you you’re my favorite granddaughter?”
    Mercedes laughed. “I’m your only granddaughter.”
    “That’s right! Uncontested champion of that department.” He leaned slightly as they rounded a tighter, sloping corner. “Say, you don’t think your aunt Sylvia will have any kids and upset the apple cart, do you?”
    Sylvia was her father’s older sister, a professor of English at Berkeley and a pronounced feminist. Mercedes didn’t know how to respond to that one. She’d never been sure exactly what her grandparents thought of their outspoken daughter. It had upset them terribly when Sylvia had decided to become a Mormon a few years ago, which was odd, since their daughter had already swung along the complete pendulum of radical, left-thinking politics. Once Mercedes overheard the neighborhood gossip chattering on and on about how Max and Britta were leaving the state so they wouldn’t have to spend their retirement money bailing their daughter out of jail. “Such an irresponsible dreamer, that girl. An embarrassment to her family.”
    But it had been Sylvia who’d paid for Mercedes’ plane ticket to Idaho, and Sylvia who’d moved in with her brother to help him take care of his wife during her final months. Just over a year had passed since illness killed Mercedes’ mother in tiny, quick degrees, grinding her down, shredding the delicate protective sheathes around her nerves. The doctors couldn’t even agree on a diagnosis of the symptoms, aside from terminal myelin degeneration.
    Neither her fierce Italian blood nor the resounding adjuration of a thousand Hail Marys had stemmed the tide inexorably turning against Mercedes’ mother.
    Sylvia arrived on their doorstep–broken into the house through a window, actually–and took charge. By that time, Mercedes was accustomed to staying home from school three days out of five to care for her mother. Even with Sylvia’s timely advent, Mercedes barely made it through the semester.
    Now it was Sylvia who stayed by her father’s side while he was recovering (he was recovering) from the removal of some kind of cyst or growth that had attached itself to his intestines. Sylvia would take care of him long enough to give Mercedes a kind of vacation. Sylvia had a good heart.
    “I hope she has kids, Grampa,” Mercedes said, squeezing his knee. “But we both know who’ll always be your favorite, right?”
    He smiled and patted her hand. “That’s right.” Max tapped the volume on the CD player, and driving, focused piano filled the car. The music was upbeat, seamless, and Mercedes simply couldn’t imagine anyone’s fingers moving that fast across a keyboard. During a measure’s worth of drum solo, Max said, “Can you name the piano here, Merce? Remember anything I taught you?”
    “Let’s see. Sounds a little like Duke Ellington, but more . . . careful about his notes.” She thought. “Smooth, like Michel Petrucciani, but--”
    “Listen to the tone.”
    She snapped her fingers. “Benny Green!”
    “Good girl.” Max slapped the steering wheel. She could tell he was pleased. “Okay, honey, we’re coming up on the town. Tell me honestly if you’ve ever seen a prettier sight.”
    The trees had begun to thin out somewhat, and Mercedes had noticed the occasional house nestled in among the lush, leafy green boughs. The valley itself had widened out, as if someone