Astrid Amara (6 page)

underwear and the tight fit of his undershirt, and felt a rush of arousal deep within me. I

quickly turned away, laying out my sleeping bag once more in case the power remained out

for the rest of the day.

“Shit,” I heard him mumble. “No Internet. The network must be down.” He closed his

laptop and fumbled on the bedside table for his cell phone. He frowned at this as well.

“No signal?” I asked.

“No.” A worry line creased his forehead.

“I’m sure your dad is fine,” I told him.

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He looked surprised at my comment, and then smiled beautifully. “Actually, I’m not

worried about him. He’s better off than we are at the moment, the hospice has a generator.”

He ran his hand over his face. “I need to shave. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

“Great, leave me to fight for my life by myself.”

“I thought you wanted me to leave you alone,” Ethan said.

“That was before my uncle made overtures to murder me.” I moved toward the door

but Ethan reached out quickly and grabbed my hand. This time I didn’t pull away.

“Stay for a minute,” he said.

I looked down at his body, and the sheets, which were now noticeably tenting.

I shook my head. “There are seven other people in this house right now.”

“I can suck you off really quietly,” he said, his voice a low whisper.

“Not while my mother is prowling around,” I whispered back.

“She’s downstairs.”

“Not going to happen.” Not that I wasn’t tempted. I could feel my own body perking up

at the word “suck” with hearty enthusiasm.

What the hell was I even thinking? This was insane. This was Ethan Rosenberg.

Loathing. I abruptly pulled my hand from his. “Get dressed,” I ordered, and then marched

downstairs before I changed my mind.

The living room looked as though a cyclone had raged through it. Everything was

upturned. Rachel yawned as she returned various items to the shelves.

“No sign of the pushke?” I asked, although I knew the answer from the state of the

room.

Rachel shook her head. “Aunt Helene has lost it.”

“No kidding.”

“I mean her mind,” Rachel clarified.

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“I believe you.”

In the kitchen I found my mother in a state of near hysteria.

“What am I going to do, Jonah?” she whispered, rushing around in panic. “How are we

going to survive? How am I going to feed everyone?”

I opened the pantry. Clearly the one hundred cans of food there provided my mother

no solace.

“It’ll be fine, Ma,” I assured her, rubbing her back. “They’ll plow the roads this morning

and everyone will be gone by the afternoon.”

“I can’t even heat the food,” she lamented. “I told your father I wanted a gas range but

he refused! Now I’m going to have to serve cold breakfast.”

“It’ll taste great.”

“And your uncle is refusing to talk to anyone, even your father.” She sighed and looked

at me.

“I didn’t take it, Ma, honestly.”

She gave me a small smile. “No. Of course you didn’t.” She reached out and touched my

shoulder, and for a moment, I froze, shocked by the gesture. I couldn’t remember the last

time she had done such a thing. She turned back to her sink, staring blankly. “What am I

going to serve?”

“We should probably consume the perishables first, since they’ll go bad faster. We can

put most of them outside to keep cold. Do you have cereal?”

She shuffled to the massive pantry and pulled out ten boxes of cereal, one of which I

recognized from high school.

“Were any of those purchased at least during the Clinton Administration?”

“Ha. My son the comedian.” She frowned at them. “Actually…only the muesli.”

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“Okay then. Muesli and milk and lukewarm orange juice and bread and butter and

jam.” I help her prepare breakfast, and the act of setting the table seemed to lull her into a

calm focus.

By seven everyone was groggily awake, except for Aunt Goldie, who appeared

conscious one moment, and then snored at the table the next. Matthew sat beside his mother

and repeatedly nudged her. He looked a lot less charming in the morning. His eyes seemed

baggy and his hair pressed flatly against his head. His stubble was uneven and he looked pale

and unhealthy.

God, less than twenty-four hours in this house, and I was beginning to sound like my

mother.

Ethan, on the other hand, looked fantastic. How he managed to shave with cold water

baffled me. He seemed far from chipper, however, and as he glanced over the table settings

he frowned.

“No coffee?” he whispered forlornly.

“Not until we rig something for the fireplace,” I told him. He grunted in response and

sat beside me, pouting.

Matthew, Daniel, and I shared our favorite Donner party stories and tried to keep the

tone light, but the older generation seemed genuinely nonplussed by the missing pushke and

did little more than grunt at each other.

As we stared at the remnants of our meal, my uncle cleared his throat.

“It’s clear that someone” -- he turned his gaze to me -- “has taken the pushke. Maybe it

was just a joke. But now that there’s enough light, I think everyone should go to their rooms

and search thoroughly, in case it got lost during the power outage.”

At once, a great exodus exploded from the table, everyone seemingly relieved to be

given something to do other than glare surreptitiously at each other.

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Astrid Amara

As we split up to search our rooms, I discovered my uncle, and not Ethan, behind me.

Uncle Al followed me into my room.

“I’m searching your things,” Uncle Al informed me.

“Go ahead,” I snapped, “but I expect an apology once you realize I’m innocent.” Last

night his accusation merely compounded a miserable day. But today I refused to humor him.

Uncle Al rooted through my carry-on, my sleeping bag, my dresser drawers.

I leaned against the wall and glared.

Having not found what he looked for, Al peeked under the bed and reached for my

suitcase. I could feel the blood drain from my face. I lunged just as he grasped the zipper.

“No! Uncle Al, don’t open that!” I reached for my suitcase but he pulled it away,

clutching it triumphantly.

“Aha! Caught you red-handed!”

“That’s mine.” Ethan marched into the room and crossed his arms over his chest,

looking very pissed off. “My father’s, actually.” He glared at my uncle.

Uncle Al frowned. “It is?”

“It’s my father’s spare colostomy kit,” Ethan said coolly. “I wouldn’t open it, if I were

you. I haven’t had a chance to sanitize everything just yet.”

Uncle Al dropped the suitcase as if it burned.

Ethan’s smirk was cold. “I hope you didn’t break anything doing that.”

“No! I just…” Uncle Al stammered for a moment, wiped his brow. Then he left the

room, but turned to point at me from the hallway. “This doesn’t mean you’re off the hook,

Jonah. Everyone is a suspect until it is found. Everyone, including you!” He stormed off.

“I think he means only you, from the sound of it,” Ethan said. He returned my suitcase

to the corner.

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I knew my face was flushed bright red. I swallowed to bring moisture back to my

parched mouth. “Thank you,” I croaked.

Ethan shrugged. “Anytime.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, head in my hands. My heart beat frantically. Did I honestly

think I was coming out any time soon, when such a simple brush with discovery sent my

blood pressure skyrocketing and set my ganglions atwitter?

“I think we should find the thief before this goes on much further,” Ethan said finally.

I looked up. “Do you know who took it?”

“No, but it can’t be hard to find since it’s somewhere in the house.” Ethan suddenly

grinned. For a moment, he looked up to no good, almost sneaky, and my stomach clenched at

the sight. It was the same smile he had when he was a boy, back when I had watched him

from afar.

“Let’s find the thief ourselves,” he said enthusiastically, his voice lowering to a thrilled

whisper.

“You mean search the place?” I whispered back.

“And look for clues!” Ethan looked excited.

I shook my head. “Did you read a lot of Nancy Drew growing up?”

He flashed me a dazzling smile. “No. However, I watched every episode of Scooby

Doo.”

“Well, we can rule out the groundskeeper,” I told him. “We don’t have one.” I conjured

some energy and stood. “Okay, Sherlock. How about we split up, ask some questions, and see

what we can find out. We’ll confer back this evening. Unless of course you just find it, in

which case, we’ll have to cut short our delightful holiday mystery.”

“Sounds like fun.” He reached out and tousled my hair as he left the bedroom.

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Astrid Amara

I straightened it again, wanting to be pissed. But I felt a flutter in my stomach instead.

And I guess my energy reserves were too low to power the thirty-three muscles needed to

frown, because I was smiling like a fool as I made my way downstairs.

* * * * *

After breakfast, my father finally managed to close the front door, transferring all the

snow that had tumbled inside to the bathtub, where we stored the perishables. I peered

outside at the frozen feet of snow and ice. No car dared the streets. In fact, there were no

streets, just a sea of white in which neighborhood kids plunged out of sight, emitting muffled

squeals of frozen delight.

Matthew volunteered to brave the negative temperatures and shovel a tunnel toward

civilization. Aunt Goldie sat ensconced under a pile of blankets where she mumbled to her

dead husband and knitted. Rachel tended the fire.

Given no specific task to address the family crisis, I moved into the kitchen, knowing

my mother would be frantic with the looming prospect of lunch. Besides, I wanted to

interview her first. It wasn’t that I held specific accusations toward my mother; more that

her response that morning surprised me. “Of course you didn’t,” she had said, as if she knew I

was innocent. And the only way this made sense to me was if she herself was guilty. Why

else would she ever defend me?

I found her scrubbing at the breakfast plates, her fingers blue from the cold water.

“What’s the plan for lunch?” I asked her.

She scraped at a plate with her fingernail. “Don’t even talk to me about lunch, Jonah.

I’m still worried about breakfast, and we’ve already eaten it!”

I opened the freezer to see what was available. I spotted a melting tub of chocolate ice

cream and decided that needed to be consumed immediately.

I found a spoon and went at it. “You want some?” I offered my mother.

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She shook her head. She dropped the plate in the cold water and quickly fetched a slice

of rye, which she put beside me.

“What’s that for?” I asked.

“Have a little bread with your ice cream,” she told me.

I rolled my eyes. “So who do you think took it, Ma?”

Her expression hardened. She turned back to the sink and attacked a crusted-on

globule of tomato paste.

“It’s your uncle. I’m sure of it,” she whispered conspiratorially.

“Uncle Al?” I asked.

“Shh!” She nodded.

I frowned. “Why would he give it to you and then take it back?”

“Because that’s the way he is!” she whispered. She rinsed the plate under the tap. “This

way, he keeps the precious pushke, but he gets credit for giving it away. We all admire him

for his selflessness and all the while, he holds on to it!”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” I reasoned. “Where would he put it? He couldn’t ever

display it again, at least not while we’re around. And Rachel and Daniel would know.”

“They wouldn’t tattle on their father,” she told me.

“Maybe. Rachel seemed pretty upset that Uncle Al gave it away without consulting

them first.”

My mother’s expression softened. “Isn’t it beautiful?” she said quietly. “It will look so

good on that mantel. Once Uncle Al is shamed into giving it back, that is.” She shook her

head. “It’s the one thing I wanted from your Zadie’s possessions, all these years. To imagine it

in our home!”

“Now we just have to find it,” I reminded her.

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“Oh, it’ll show up. I’m sure of it. He’ll confess, you see.” She frowned. “You aren’t

eating your bread?”

“I’m saving room for lunch,” I told her.

She tsked me again. “Don’t mention lunch, Jonah. I’m serious. If this weather continues

we’ll all starve. Starve to death, in our own home.”

“Better than starving in someone else’s home.” I kissed her cheek and then went in

search of Ethan, to share my mother’s Uncle Al gift-stealing theory, and also find out what

he had discovered.

I found him in the garage, stripped to the waist and resourcefully chopping wood. My

father always bought cellophane-wrapped sets of nicely shaped show wood, and he would

haul out a log once a year to make sure the fireplace worked.

“The wood is burning too slowly,” Ethan said, not even out of breath as he swung the

ax in a perfect arc. When did he become the poster boy for chopping wood? His form was