“Oh, Grandpa,” I said, tears warming my cheeks. “It’s beautiful.”
He put his arm around my shoulders, and we stood there silently for a few moments. We left in silence and drove home in silence. Myra and My Faith and even Dorian were aware of where we had gone. We all hugged, and then My Faith insisted that I learn how to make the chocolate swirl angel-food cake my grandfather loved.
“Myra’s no cook or baker, and I’m gettin’ along in years,” she claimed. “I could use some assistance once in a while.”
I knew why she was trying to keep me busy. Dorian gave me a knowing look and a smile, too. But I didn’t have much time to fall back into sadness and mourning, anyway. The second surprise of the day arrived just before dinner: Uncle Bobby. He burst in like a breath of fresh air. He was full of excitement. His Broadway opportunity had been solidified. Even Grandpa uncharacteristically listened to his stories about show business and asked good questions at dinner. The conversation between them was going back and forth so fast that I thought I was watching a Ping-Pong game. Count Piro was intrigued by all the chatter and had to be continually reminded to eat.
The first week of my Christmas holiday was filled with activities and short trips to see Christmas decorations and store windows. Uncle Bobby was working on his choreography, and during the afternoons, he would let Count Piro and me watch him creating new steps and moves. Count Piro looked fascinated with it all, and then, one afternoon, without any prodding, he turned to me and said out of the blue, “Cathy dances, too.” It was as if he and I had been talking about his past for days.
Uncle Bobby heard him say it, but he just looked at me cautiously. He had spent time with Dorian and Grandpa and was updated on Count Piro’s recuperation, especially how to handle him. Dorian wasn’t in the room at the time.
“Is Cathy your sister or your mother?” I asked him.
“Sister,” he said.
“Where is she now?”
He looked at me. “With Christopher and Carrie,” he said.
Uncle Bobby stopped dancing. “Careful,” he whispered.
“Where are they, Count?”
He shook his head. His eyes were starting to tear. I looked helplessly at Uncle Bobby. Any moment, the Count could have an episode.
“Hey,” Uncle Bobby said quickly. “What do you think of this?” He did a twist, a kick, and then a split. Count Piro smiled again. “I can do it backward,” Uncle Bobby told him, and he did so. His smile widened, and his tears receded. I breathed with relief.
Afterward, I told Dorian everything, and then the three of us met with Grandpa in his office.
“I’ll get the information to my guy and to the police,” he said. “Maybe we can finally get to the bottom of it all.”
However, days passed, and nothing new happened. Dr. Patrick had some more sessions with Count Piro, but she didn’t share the results with anyone but Grandpa. When I asked, he merely said, “We’re making progress.”
We exchanged presents on Christmas morning. Count Piro was there for it all and overjoyed with his gifts. Our Christmas dinner was as wonderful as ever. The following morning, we had our first snow of the year. It was light but enough to create the winter wonderland that Willie had loved. Like Willie, Count Piro was eager to go out and feel the flakes on his face. Dorian bundled him up, and we took him for a short turn down the driveway and back.
Later that day, Uncle Bobby came to my room to say good-bye.
“I think all of this is on the verge of some sort of resolution, Clara Sue,” he began. We were all aware of how Dr. Patrick’s sessions with the Count had intensified during the past few days. “I think you’ve done a terrific job of handling the situation. Dad’s been the happiest I’ve seen him in a long time.”
“Might not only be my doing,” I said, and he smiled.
“Yes, I know. She’s very nice, and she’s gotten him almost housebroken.”
I laughed. Then I stopped and took his hand. “Everything’s changed so much, Uncle Bobby. I miss everyone so much, too.”
“I know. All you can do is keep busy and try to make them proud of who you are and who you will be. Now, listen,” he said, eager to change the topic. “You’ll be coming to New York for sure. My father and I agree on that. Maybe all three of you will be coming.”
“I’d like that so much.”
“Me, too.”
We hugged, and he started out. Then he paused in the doorway. “A good-bye is just the curtain closing for this evening’s performance. It will open again,” he said, and performed a sweeping bow, threw me a kiss, and went off.
I couldn’t help feeling that he was right.
The curtain had come down on Act I.
Now, for Act II.