The Dissolution of Nicholas Dee by Matthew Stadler

Author:Matthew Stadler
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Fiction, Gay, General
ISBN: 9780684193526
Publisher: Scribner
Published: 1993-02-14T21:00:00+00:00

TWELVE

“SHE’S HERE MR. DEE. She’s come back.” It was Francis, on the phone, with his breathless announcement. Amelia Weathered had returned to the city. I found her at home, waiting impatiently in the vestibule. The door opened as I approached the house, and the dwarf peered out. I had fallen finally into the crushed invisible center. Her eyes were silver and blue, icy as the day I’d first met her. They danced and darted, somewhere near my waist. I could only stare uncomfortably at the top of her hair and the colorful scarf she had wrapped around her head. She took my arm and led me in.

After her long and elaborate seduction of me I expected grand prophecies or a stirring call to action of some sort. Instead (and, I would learn, typically) she dealt with first things first. “Where is Oscar Vega?”

“Oscar?” I stammered, unnerved by her presence. Francis pointed me to the couch, then went noiselessly on to the kitchen. “He’s out, out this morning, before I woke.” The information upset her. “I believe he’s due back at my apartment, soon.”

“Out?”

“This morning. When I woke up he was gone. He didn’t leave a note.” Francis returned with iced drinks, and sat silently beside us.

“And you didn’t wait for him?”

“I’d promised Clausewitz, you see. We were supposed to meet.” Somehow I’d begun apologizing for my near heroic efforts to save the boy. “Not to worry, uh, Amelia,” I continued, still fearful of her. “I left him a note with complete instructions; the office number, times, directions for locking and unlocking doors. I even included your phone number.” I nodded brightly at this detail. “He hasn’t called already has he?”

“Called?” she barked. “Why would he call? The boy can’t read or write. Your note is nonsense to him.” She dashed her scarf upon the recliner. “Go there immediately!” And with this exclamation she pointed out the door, brandishing her enormously long arm. “And bring him back here.”

When I arrived Oscar was in the kitchen cooking. The apartment was full with the odor of garlic and olive oil, as redolent and welcoming as at Madame Ethyl’s. The boy was singing a song about clams, poorly but with gusto: “I think of my happy condition, surrounded by acres of clams,” he bellowed. “Surround-ed by acres of cla-a-ams, surrounded by acres of clams.” And here he banged the pots with a spoon. The song was a regional anthem of sorts (plus an advertising jingle for a local clam shack) and Oscar seemed to know every verse. “Oscar?”

I called from the doorway. “Oscar Vega? It’s Nicholas Dee here.” I noticed the cat curled around his neatly folded clothes.

“Nick?” The boy came from the kitchen smiling, and holding a spoon covered in cream sauce. He’d taken my tweeds, and a garish Christmas tie. “Nick’s okay, right, Dr. Dee?” There was cream sauce on his upper lip.

“Anything you like, Oscar. Nick, Nicholas, whatever. What are you doing in the kitchen?”

“Cooking.” He stepped up to my proffered hand and shook it.

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