"You must come back," said the widow.

"It would be my express pleasure," said Schell.

I'd noticed that while we stood gathered in the foyer that Milton tried to put his arm around Morrison's niece, but she shrugged his hand off her shoulder. Apparently she had no problem interpreting the strange symbolic language of the dead. Milton ignored this brush-off and stepped up to Schell.

"Most uncanny," he said. "I too would like to employ you for a sйance."

"I'll consider it," said Schell, "although, usually, I make my services available to only a certain quality of individual."

Milton seemed to take this as an affirmation.

I delivered my Ondoo nightcap, one of my favorites from the Rig-Veda, "May he whose head is flaming burn the demons, haters of prayer, so that the arrow slay them," and we left. It was our practice to always walk in single file with Schell first and myself behind, moving slow and measured, as if in a stately procession.

Antony Cleopatra was waiting beside the Cord, dressed in his chauffeur uniform and cap, holding the door. Schell got in the front, and after closing the door, Antony came around and held open the other door for me. Once we were seated, he got in the driver's seat, squeezed his hulking mass behind the wheel, and started the engine. As we traveled down the long, winding driveway toward the road, I lifted the turban off my head.

"How'd it go?" asked Antony.

"That widow held more gas than a zeppelin," I said.

"Or didn't," said Schell. "I was afraid to light the candle."

"How'd you come up with the bit about them on the beach and the blue bottle?" I asked.

"Passing through the parlor, on the way to the dining room where we had the sйance," said Schell, "there's a lovely photograph on the fireplace mantel of the widow and poor Garfield, standing on a beach. In her hand is the bottle."

"But the color of it?" I asked.

"It was of a distinct shape most commonly used to hold an old curative elixir, Angel's Broom, now outlawed for its alcoholic content. These were sometimes made of brown glass but more often blue. I simply played the odds on the color."

I laughed in admiration. Thomas Schell possessed more flim-flam than a politician, a poet, and a pope put together. As Antony often put it, "He could sell matches to the devil."

The world was on the skids, soup lines and Dust Bowls, but you would never have known it from the polished brass banisters and chandeliers of Mrs. Morrison's Gold Coast palace. The Depression wasn't our concern either as the three of us sat in Schell's Bugatorium (Antony's name for it), sipping champagne in celebration of a job well done. The air was alive around us with the flutter of tiny wings, a hundred colors floating by, like living confetti, to mark our success. An orange albatross, Appias nero, the caterpillars of which had arrived from Burma some weeks earlier, lighted on the rim of Schell's glass, and he leaned forward to study it.

"I'm positive the widow will have us back," he said, "and when she does we'll have to give her a little more of a show. She's a vein we've only begun to tap."

"Maybe Antony could pose as Garfield, you know, a flour job. We'll ghost him up," I said. "I noticed a window there in the dining room. If we could direct her to the window, he could be standing out in the garden in the shadows."

"Not a bad idea," said Schell, coaxing the butterfly off his glass with a gentle nudge of his pinky.

"I hate being dead people," said Antony.

"You're a natural," I said.

"Watch it, junior," said the big man.

We waited a long while for Schell to jump back in the conversation, but he didn't. Instead he merely sighed, took one more sip of his drink, and set his glass on the table. "Gentlemen, I'm through," he said and stood up. "Nice work this evening." He stepped around to where I sat and shook my hand. This had been the protocol since I was a child; never a hug at bedtime, only hand shaking. He then moved on to Antony and did the same. "Remember, no smoking in here, Mr. Cleopatra," he said.

"Whatever you say, Boss," said Antony.

We watched Schell leave the room, moving wearily, as though carrying some invisible burden. A few minutes later, the muffled sound of Mozart's Requiem came to us from down the hall and through the closed door.

Hearing the sad music in the distance, Antony poured another drink for himself and said, "Funeral time."

"What's wrong with him these days?" I asked, holding out my glass for a refill.

"No more booze for you tonight," he said.

"Come on."

"When you're eighteen."

"Okay," I said, knowing not to test his patience. "But what about the boss?"

"The boss?" he said, taking a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his shirt pocket. "His feelings are on unemployment."

"Well put," I said.

"You better believe it," said Antony, lighting the cigarette he'd placed between his lips.

"Why, though?" I asked. "We could be out there scrounging for a crust of bread, but business has never been better."

"This shit can get to you after a while. Bilking people, scamming old ladies." He leaned back and blew a big smoke ring. A beautiful blue morpho flew right through the center, dispersing it.

"That's what he does, though, and he's the best at it," I said.

"He's a fucking artist, for sure, but it's not really right."

"The widow looked pretty pleased to see her husband again tonight," I said. "How much do you think that was worth to her?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know the arguments, but I'm telling you, he's caught the funk from it," he said, standing to lean across the table and grab Schell's glass. As he sat back down, he flicked his ash into the remaining champagne, and it fizzed.

"What makes you so sure?"

"Back when I worked the carnivals, wrestling palookas and bending iron bars with my teeth, I saw all manner of shills. These guys, some of them were champs, you know, made a healthy living at it. Some of them would con their old ladies for a quarter if they could, but some a them actually had a conscience, and after a while, even if they never thought about it up front, underneath, the unhonestness of it ate them away."

"Schell…a conscience?" I asked.

"If not, why'd he take you in? I told him back when first he brought you home, I said, 'Boss, the last thing you need's some spic brat running around your life.' He said, 'Too late, Antony, he's ours and we have to raise him.'"

"And then you grew to love me," I said.

"Yeah," he said. "But, the boss, he's caught between a shit and a sweat."

I shook my head, unable to conceive of Thomas Schell ever being confused about anything. The revelation disturbed me, and Antony must have seen this in my expression.

"Don't worry, we'll think of something," he said, dropping the spent butt into the champagne glass. He stood up. "I'm hitting the sack." He pointed to the glass with the butt in it. "Do me a favor and get rid a this crap so I don't get in trouble."

"Okay," I whispered, still deep in thought.

Antony walked around behind me and put his palm on top of my head, his long fingers encompassing my crown like a normal size hand holding an apple. He shook me gently back and forth. "Schell's gonna be fine," he said. "You're a good kid, Diego. You're a helluva swami."

He let go and lumbered toward the door, a small swarm of pine whites following in his wake.

"Good night, Antony," I said.

"Sleep tight, babe," he called back and then slipped out of the room as quickly as he could to keep the butterflies in.

I sat quietly, surveying the veritable jungle of plants and potted trees surrounding the table and chairs. The blossoms were as varied in color and shape as the insects. Up above, I could see the stars through the glass skylight. In his room, Schell had exchanged the platter on his Victrola for some equally melancholic piece, and the serenity of the scene made me ponder this turning point in my life. I'm sure the moment comes to most earlier, but few have had a "father" as extraordinary as mine. In my conversation with Antony, it had struck me for the first time that Schell was merely mortal. The thought of him troubled, confused, made the world seem instantly more sinister.