Read Far-Flung for Free Online

handing it to Jack.
    He opened the armoire. On the inner side of its doors were beveled mirrors mottled with green moss-like fog. One half of the space was a closet of dresses sheathed in dress bags. Sequins glinted, iridescent as crows’ wings, in the darkness. The other half contained drawers of varying sizes. Jack opened one and found a stash of scarves, an unmade bed of glossy silk and lace. He felt his grandmother watching his back. The next drawer contained a jumble of gloves, an orgy of hands, gloves of every length and color, gloves with gauntlets, gloves with pearls and flowers and monograms embroidered on them. “Where did you get all this stuff?” he asked.
    She snorted. “There was a time when people bought fine things and kept them.”
    He slid open a thin drawer. On a field of crimson velvet an army of brooches and earrings were pinned, all of them set with stones glittering in unembarrassed colors. “Are these real?” he asked.
    Mrs. Carter didn’t answer. She sat with a blank look on her face.
    Jack closed the drawer. “Are you tired?” he asked.
    She shook her head no. “I am thinking about your daughters,” she said, looking out the window at the sun’s disappearance.
    “Oh,” Jack said.
    “Do they know they have a great-grandmother?”
    “I don’t think they remember you,” he said.
    “Of course they don’t remember me. They haven’t seen me since they were babies. My question was, do they know of me?”
    “I think I’ve mentioned you,” he said.
    “Mentioned me? How generous of you.”
    “They are not a part of my life,” Jack said.
    “So you have disowned them.” Mrs. Carter looked at him.
    “No,” he said. “You don’t understand.”
    “Of course I don’t understand, because your behavior is incomprehensible.”
    “They have a new father. I try not to interfere.”
    “How very gallant of you.”
    Jack closed the armoire and locked it. He played with the keys. They were old keys, made of iron. He wondered what else they opened. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish things were different. I wish I were different.”
    For a moment neither of them said anything. Mrs. Carter looked back out the window. “I had to have the elm tree cut down,” she said. “The town insisted on it. They said it was jeopardizing the electrical wires.”
    “That’s a shame,” Jack said.
    She shrugged her thin shoulders. “They did a very neat job of it. All in a day.”
    “I didn’t notice it was gone,” said Jack.
    “It’s getting dark,” said Mrs. Carter. “Turn on the light.”
    Jack’s show was at the Winterburn Gallery, which was owned by a woman named Olivia de Havilland. She claimed this was her real name, and Jack saw no reason to doubt her, since there were a number of other equally odd things about her that were true. He spent an exhausting day hanging the show with her. She had the unfortunate idea that some of the canvases should be hung very high, and some very low, thus creating, in her words, “a dynamic viewing experience.”
    Although Jack had sent an invitation to the opening to his ex-wife, he was surprised to see her there. They usually avoided each other. But about halfway through the evening, Barbara entered the gallery, trailing a twin by either arm. The twins were dressed in brightly colored jogging suits; Barbara’s newly restored body was tightly swathed in leather. She ignored the paintings and made right for Jack. “Greetings,” she said, kissing the air beside his cheek. She indicated the twins and said, “les enfants,” as though they were some exotic delicacy.
    Jack didn’t know what to do. He felt under-rehearsed. He was aware that everyone was watching him and that he was making a poor show. One of the twins—he had no idea which—clutched his leg. He reached down and patted her head. She looked up at him.
    “Which one?” he said.
    “Sigourney,” Barbara said. “See Daddy’s paintings,” she said to the child. “Daddy painted