number and the time, but she refused to give him either.
'How am I supposed to pick you up?' he asked.
'You're not. I'll take a cab from the airport. I need some time to think.'
'You won't have enough thinking time on the plane? Come on, Bonnie, this doesn't make any sense. There's no reason to waste money on a cab when I can easily come and pick you up. The airport's fifteen minutes from my house, for God's sake.'
'I want to be alone.'
'Bonnie
Stop trying to boss me around all the time. I have some things to sort through. Can't you understand that?'
She was getting ready to hang up on him--he recognized the signs--so he backed off and they if not warmly, at least amicably. Now she'd called him from the back of the cab, telling him she was on her way, and he assumed that meant she had a cellular phone. She'd never mentioned it to him, but she and Gil were yuppie enough to invest in such an obvious status symbol, and he reminded himself not to pick on her, to leave her alone, that this was a tragic time for both of them.
Well, a tragic time for him.
An inconvenience for her.
At the sound of a car pulling into the driveway, he peeked through the front window and saw a yellow cab in back of his Buick. He swore to himself that he would not provoke her, that they would not quarrel, and he hurried out to meet his sister.
She looked tired. Her skin was pale, there were large bags under her eyes, and he found that he actually felt sorry for her. He gave her a hug, helped the cab driver remove her luggage from the trunk, then carried her suitcases inside as she followed him into the house.
He put her bags in the guest bedroom, then walked back out to the living room.
Bonnie took off her coat and sat down on the couch. 'You want something to drink? Water? Tea? Coke?' 'No, thanks.'
He nodded, sat down in the recliner to the tight of the couch. 'So how are you doing?' he asked.
She shrugged. 'Fine.'
He looked at his sister, suddenly aware of how much she resembled their mother. She was thinner, her movements were different, but her features and especially the expressions that passed over her face were their mother's exactly. It was ironic, because Bonnie and her mother had never really gotten along. They were too much alike, perhaps. Both highly strung and self-involved, touchy and defensive, neither of them had possessed the requisite sympathy or patience to ever understand one another. There'd been no reconciliation between them before their mother's death and, Miles suspected, no remorse on his sister's part afterward.
Bonnie smiled stiffly at him, and he smiled back. He realized that he didn't have anything to say to his sister. The questions that popped into his mind, the genetic conversation openers he considered and rejected, were all of the superficial sitcom variety--How's Gil? How are the kids? He wanted to be able to talk to her, to really communicate, but he didn't know how. She, too, seemed to be at a loss, and they sat there awkwardly, strangers who were siblings.
It was Bonnie who spoke first. 'So where's Dad... I mean, his body? Downtown The coroner's office.'
'Do you think I should see him?'
'Do you want to?'
= 'I don't know.'
'It's up to you.'
Another awkward silence.
'Maybe I will take that drink,' she said. 'Water?'
'With' 9' ice.
She nodded, and he went into the kitchen, grateful for some time to plan out what he would say. He and his sister had never been that close, but he hadn't realized until now how much they had depended upon their father to keep the conversation alive when they were together. He filled a glass with water and ice and carried it back out.
Bonnie accepted it. 'Thanks.' She took a sip. 'Whatever happened to the nurse? You didn't tell me.'
'Audra?' Miles shrugged. 'She's still working for the hospice agency, but she doesn't want to speak with me. I've tried, several times. I suppose she's already on some other: case, with a new patient.' He sighed, 'She can avoid me al she wants, but if the police want to speak to her, she'll have to talk to them.'
'Police? Are there police involved?'
'Not yet. But they might be.' He shook his head. 'Who knows?'
More silence.
He thought for a moment. He'd been honest with her over the phone, but there was one thing he hadn't told her about. and he asked her to wait while he walked into his father bedroom and took out the cardboard carton containing the contents of the safety deposit box.
He set the carton down on the coffee table in front of the glass and started telling her about their father's dream, his recur ring nightmare of the tidal wave and his subsequent trip to the library to pick up occult books. Miles speculated that their dad had known what was coming, that he was some how preparing for it or maybe even trying to stave it off
He then explained about the paraphernalia he had found in the safety deposit box.
Bonnie didn't seem all that surprised by what he had say, and that made him suspicious. 'That doesn't shock you?' he asked.
She shook her head. 'Not really.'
Miles pointed at the box. 'So what is this?'
'What is what?'
'This!' He picked up a phial of gray powder and shook it in front of her face. He dropped the phial back in the box. 'What is all this?
Why would Dad keep all of this magic stuff in his safety deposit box?'
'How would I know?'
'I thought he might have mentioned something about it to you.'
'to me? If he'd talked about it with anyone, it would have been you.
In case you hadn't noticed, we weren't exactly on the best of terms.'
'I mean before all this. When we were little.'
She stood. 'Look, I don't know anything about any of this. I don't know what this crap is, and I don't care. I don't think it has anything to do with anything.' She looked at him, shook her head. 'And I don't understand why you're so worked up about it.'
'Because our father is in the morgue and he's dead and he's still walking around! Is that clear enough for you?' .
She sat back down.
They looked at each other--glared, really--but there was more fear in their expressions than anger, and the animosity could not be sustained by either of them. Bonnie broke first, and she reached her hand up to him, and he took it, and then they were hugging. 'I'm sorry,' Bonnie said.
'I'm sorry, too,' Miles told her.
They held each other tighter. She started crying, sniffling at first, then wailing, and he rocked her and whispered re assurances as she sobbed into his shoulder like a baby.
In the morning, Bonnie was gone. She'd written a long apologetic letter, a rambling screed covering six double-sided pages, telling him that she could not handle this right now, that she needed some time, that she would be there for the
