Furious - By Jill Wolfson Page 0,17
follow the line of her pointing finger to a snow globe on her bookshelf. It’s the size of a grapefruit and not the cheapo souvenir kind you buy at the boardwalk.
“Pick it up. It won’t bite you.”
From the heft I know it’s real glass, not plastic, and my first reaction when I look at the scene inside is: Something’s seriously messed up, something’s not right about this. I hold the globe at an angle to study it better.
No, it’s not messed up accidentally; it’s meant to be this way. Suspended in the liquid there’s a slanted cliff, and all along the jagged rock are tiny figures in various actions and positions. One figure, a man, is caught in the moment of jumping off the cliff, his arms spread in panic, his features painted to show fear and dread. On a rocky outcrop another figure sits huddled, head in arms, the posture of despair. Another figure is frozen in the act of pushing someone off the ledge.
I shake the globe, and instead of snow, black ash falls on these miserable, tortured figures.
I know it’s only an inanimate object, but I can’t wait to get it out of my hands, and I feel a peculiar relief when the globe is back on the shelf. I push it as far from me as possible without sending it over the edge. Behind me I hear a faint tinkle of a laugh from Ambrosia: “It’s a work of art, but it takes a little getting used to. Give it some time. You’ll appreciate it eventually.”
Across the room Alix is pacing like a caged animal trying to make herself comfortable in all the finery. Out of water she’s so awkward. She flops on the bed, quickly stands, and with a look of apology to Ambrosia slaps her pant legs to remove some dried mud and sits back down. So, I think, she does have manners after all.
In the meantime Stephanie, dressed in her usual layers—long hemp blouse and thrift-store sweater over a flowing paisley skirt—has curled up in the window seat. She’s taking everything in, less impressed and more judgmental now, probably disgusted by all the wealth. I imagine her calculating how many monkey lives could be saved by the price of Ambrosia’s brocade drapery alone.
Behind her, with those drapes pulled open, I have a perfect view of the all-white garden, and behind that I can see a broad sweep of the ocean. I’d give anything to have a room of my own with a view like this. The weather report said that the last freak storm was over, but it sure looks to me like another is brewing. It was clear this morning, but now a cloud bank, thick and gray, collects on the horizon.
I choose to sit in a white wicker rocker, and Ambrosia offers me first dibs on the snack she’s prepared. Crackers are fanned out like a deck of cards on fancy white china, accompanied by a bowl of purple-colored dip. I dig in. It’s garlicky, salty, and sweet, but not sweet like sugar, more perfume sweet, the very essence of sweet. Delicious. Unlike anything I have ever tasted before. I have to stop myself from licking it off my fingers. My mind concocts recipes. I want to smear it onto bread, coat spaghetti with it, slurp it through a straw.
“I am totally pigging out on this,” Stephanie agrees. “I never want to eat anything else ever again.”
“All organic, of course. Olive and fig,” Ambrosia explains. “It’s an old family recipe, secret spices and all that.” As she bites into her cracker, she makes little moans of pleasure. Every movement of her mouth fascinates me. She dabs at her lips with a cloth napkin, sets it aside, and fixes her attention on us with an individual nod to each.
“I called you,” she says warmly. “You came.”
I stuff the last of the cracker into my mouth.
She lifts a book off her desk. It’s a journal or scrapbook, and she unties the bow of gold ribbon that holds it closed. I catch a glimpse of the calligraphed title, The Book of something. She takes her time leafing through pages. The paper looks old and in danger of crumbling. I notice clippings from newspapers, drawings, and passages in ornate handwriting. Ambrosia’s so engrossed that for a minute I wonder if she’s forgotten that we’re still here.
“Ahhhh. Here it is. Just the thing for this occasion. Listen carefully.”
She reads aloud and I know that she’s speaking