Trophies by J. Gunnar Grey

table was set for tea, but the sugar lumps were tiny boulders;
a crane maneuvered the silverware into position and a bulldozer
unloaded biscuits onto a serving plate.
    "Every time I look at this one, I find
something new."
    The oil well by the sink served as a soap
dispenser and a ginger cat atop the fridge stared haughtily down at
the tabletop construction site. I shook my head. "William's son did
this?" I located my brother through the crowd, nearer now but not
so much that I felt actively combative. A spotlight dusted his
profile as he gazed at the pastels. He was alone, and a quick sweep
of the showroom located Father's trim salt-and-pepper hair beside
the buffet tables, back still toward us, in conversation with his
brother, Patricia's father, my Uncle Preston. The lighting fell
full on Uncle Preston's confident smile, as if he was one of the
exhibits rather than a member of the audience, and as I watched he
nodded.
    Patty stared at the painting as if she'd
missed my surveillance. "Oh, Trés is fabulous. He's been
out-drawing his art teachers since he was ten."
    "Well, he must get that from his mother."
    On William's arm now was an absolute stunner.
I could only assume her to be his wife — what was her name? Linda?
— for her eyes were red and swollen as only a mother's eyes would
be for her injured child. But that did nothing to detract from her
beauty, which began with ripples of soft honey-colored hair and
ended with sculpted calves that didn't need her high heels to look
good. In her coral tea-length dress, trimmed with white lace, she
was the epitome of English peaches-and-cream, a look I'd never much
cared for until I saw it on her.
    Patricia let my snottiness ride. "Look at
this one."
    I pretended to look while watching the
family. In their vicinity now was a younger version of Linda; the
two women even wore the same dresses and were almost the same size.
The daughter — Lindsay, I remembered, and about fifteen or so —
stared at me until I openly glanced her way. Then she found the
charcoals of extreme interest.
    But Linda snuck a nod and small smile to me;
I couldn't help but return the smile. Funny, she didn't seem snooty
at all and despite her elegant looks not the sort of woman I'd have
expected William to marry.
    Halfway around the gallery I started glancing
at the discreet price tags.
    "You don't think he's asking a bit much for a
first showing?"
    Patty shook her head. "Not according to Aunt
Edith, and surely she would have known."
    We almost passed Patricia's younger brother,
Jacob, before I recognized him. He stood alone with his back to a
display, dark eyes just out of reach of the lights. Jacob was the
family changeling, his blond hair and black, pupil-less eyes like
no one else named Ellandun, and I know the twins used to rag him
over being found in a gully behind the house, or left behind by
aliens, and things similarly silly. He looked up, found me watching
him, and started.
    "Charles?" His clipped tenor sounded rough,
as if he didn't use it often enough. "Is it my turn?"
    "Your turn?" I didn't know Jacob all that
well, so I hoped he was being friendly. It was difficult to be
certain with his closed, give-nothing-away face. "For what?"
    "To pay my respects, of course," he held out
his hand, "and to offer my condolences. Aunt Edith was a grand
woman. I don't have to tell you she'll be missed."
    For Jacob, the quiet man who seemed
perpetually in the corner, that was a real speech and more words
than I'd ever heard him say before. I took his hand wordlessly. He
glanced down again, slapped my shoulder, and moved to join the
twins. In their glamorous presence he seemed more an odd duck than
ever. Like Patty, he grew up in their elegant, unified shadow and
like her he seemed to dwindle in the comparison.
    The display Jacob had hidden showcased
sculptures carved from gemstones, small and perfectly-detailed
African and Indian animals. There was a sardonyx tiger, the orange
and white stripes of the agate