Hemlock Bay

doesn’t paint like our grandmother; he whittles. He creates beautiful pieces.”
    “A boy’s hobby, not worth much of anything to anyone with sophistication and discrimination. And you spend your time drawing cartoons. What is the name? Remus?”
    “Yes, I draw political cartoons. His name is No Wrinkles Remus. He’s utterly immoral, like you, but I’ve never yet seen him want to murder someone.” She paused for a moment, smiled at the motionless manservant. “I’m really quite good at cartooning. Isn’t it interesting the way Grandmother’s talent found new ways to come out in us, her grandchildren?”
    “Sarah Elliott was unique. There will never be another like her.”
    “I agree. There will never be another cartoonist like me either. I’m unique, too. And what are you, Olaf? Other than an obsessed old man who has had too much money and power for far too long? Tell me, have you ever done anything worthwhile in your blighted life?”
    His face turned red; his breathing became labored. The manservant looked frightened. The two bodyguards stood straighter and tensed, their eyes darting from Lily to their boss.
    She just couldn’t stop herself. Rage and impotence roiled inside her, and she hated this wretched monster. Yes, let him burst a vessel with his rage; let him stroke out. It was payback for all that he’d done to her, to Simon. “I know what you are—you’re one of those artists manqué, one of those pathetically sad people who were just never good enough, who could only be hangers-on, always on the outside looking in. You weren’t even good enough to be a pale imitation, were you? I’ll bet my grandmother thought you were pitiful, yes, pathetic. I’ll bet she told you what she thought of you, didn’t she?”
    “Shut up!” He began cursing her, but it was in Swedish and she couldn’t understand. The bodyguards were even more on edge now, surprised at what the old man, their boss, was yelling, the spittle spewing out of his mouth.
    Lily didn’t shut up. She just talked over him, yelled louder than he was yelling, “What did she say to you that last day when she left with my grandfather? Because you went to her, didn’t you? Begged her to marry you instead of Emerson, but she refused, didn’t she? Did she laugh at you? Did she tell you that she would even take that woman-hating Picasso before you? That you had the talent of a slug and you disgusted her, all your pretenses, your affectations? What did she say to you, Olaf?”
    “Damn you, she said I was a spoiled little boy who had too much money and would always be a shallow, selfish man!” He was wheezing, nearly incoherent, flinging himself from side to side.
    Lily stared at him. “You even remember the exact words my grandmother said to you? That was more than sixty-five years ago! My God, you were pathetic then, and you’re beyond that now. You’re frightening.”
    “Shut up!” Olaf seemed feverish now, his frail, veined hands clutching the arms of the wheelchair, his bent and twisted fingers showing white from the strain.
    The manservant was leaning over him now, speaking urgently in his ear. She could hear the words, but he spoke in Swedish.
    Olaf ignored him, shook him off. Lily said, smiling, “Do you know that Sarah loved Emerson so much she was always painting him? That there are six of his portraits in our mother’s private collection?”
    “I knew,” he screamed at her, “of course I knew! You think I would ever want a portrait of that philistine? That damned fool knew nothing of what she was. He couldn’t have understood or appreciated what she was! I could, but she left me. I begged her, on my knees in front of her, but it didn’t matter—she left me!”
    He was trembling so badly she thought he would fall from his wheelchair.
    Suddenly, Olaf yelled something in Swedish to his manservant. The man grabbed the handles and began pushing the wheelchair across the huge chessboard.
    “Hey, Olaf, why are you running away from me? Don’t you like hearing what I have to say? I’ll bet it’s only the second time anyone’s told you the truth. Don’t you want to marry me anymore?”
    She heard him yelling, but she couldn’t make out the words; they were garbled, incoherent, some English, some Swedish. He sounded like a mad old man, beyond control. What was he going to do? Why had he left? She stood on the king one square, leaning against the beautifully carved heavy piece, shuddering with reaction, wondering