Elena by Thomas H. Cook Page B

days in her dark bedroom, where she felt, I imagine, some sense of peace and safety.
    The question, of course, was what to do about all this. Elena and I discussed it quite often during those early days of our mother’s illness. No solution emerged, however. At least, not until our father returned home in the middle of June. He had been gone for almost six weeks, our only contact with him those checks which were always in the mailbox each Wednesday, “the little love notes from Father,” as Elena once called them.
    It was a sweltering day, that Tuesday in June, when he pulled into the driveway. He bounced out of the car, then wiped his neck with a dark blue silk handkerchief.
    â€œHow you kids doing?” he asked brightly as Elena and I walked out onto the front porch to greet him. “Hot enough for ya?” He dug his fists into his sides and pivoted slowly, belly thrust out — a little potentate surveying his tiny estate. “Place looks good. Keep the lawn mowed real good, Billy.”
    I nodded. “I’m surprised you noticed.”
    He knew very well this was a dig, but he never allowed me the satisfaction of acknowledging it. “Let me tell you something, Billy,” he said loudly, “these old eyes see all.”
    Well, those old eyes had not seen one thing: our mother prostrate on her bed in the middle of the afternoon. Elena, however, intended for him to see, and she got to the point immediately.
    â€œMother has a problem,” she told him as he sauntered up the porch steps.
    He stopped and looked at her. “Problem? What kind of problem?”
    â€œShe’s gone off her head,” I said flatly.
    My father continued to look at Elena. “Where is she?”
    â€œIn her bedroom,” Elena said.
    â€œSleeping?”
    â€œMore or less.”
    My father nodded. “Same way with all those goddamn Mayhews, a nest of loons, all of them.” He scratched his chin. “Howlong’s she been like this?”
    â€œAlmost a month,” Elena said.
    My father continued up the stairs. “Well, let’s have a look.”
    He followed us into the bedroom, stared down at my mother’s rigid body for a minute, then walked back into the living room and flopped down in the chair by the window.
    â€œYou got any ice water, Billy?” he asked, swabbing his neck again with his handkerchief. “Get me a glass, will you?” He looked at Elena. “Sit down, Princess, we’re all going to have to talk about this.”
    From the kitchen, I could hear the two of them talking quietly. It was mostly Elena’s voice, describing the onset of our mother’s illness very matter-of-factly and in great detail.
    My father was lighting up a cigar when I brought him the water. He took it quickly and gulped it down. “Look at this, Billy,” he said, handing me back the glass.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThis right here,” my father said, fumbling inside his jacket pocket. He pulled out a piece of paper.
    â€œSit down and look at that,” he said. He turned back to Elena. “Now, tell me, Princess, what do you make of your mother? Think she’ll get better, or what?”
    While Elena attempted to answer my father’s question, I looked at the paper he had given me. It was some sort of advertisement for land in Florida, a place called Davis Islands.
    â€œWhat’s this?” I asked.
    My father turned to me. “Did you read it?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œWell, it says they’ve sold eighteen million dollars worth of land in thirty-one hours.”
    My father nodded sagely. “That’s right. Land around Tampa Bay. Davis Islands. And what does it say at the top, Billy?”
    I glanced down at the ad. “It says, ‘Sold out.’”
    My father smiled. “That’s right, Billy-boy. Sold out. And guess who got a piece of it before that