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Jackie’s mind. But she couldn’t bring into clear focus what it was; just that there were too many sixes involved. Not just in her father’s talking, but this entire place. Everything could be broken down into sixes. She dismissed it and concentrated on her father’s voice.
    â€œMy brother’s name was Ira. I don’t even remember what he looked like. But he was Grandmother Bowers’s favorite. I was told that by her—pointedly told. The day the old lady died, Ira escaped from the mental institution. He has not been seen since. Heard from, I believe, but not seen by anyone that I know of. He would be . . . forty-three years old.” Lucas sighed. “Anyway, when the will was read, Grandmother Bowers’s will, all her monies, and they were considerable—”
    â€œWhat’s that mean, Dad?” Johnny asked.
    â€œMeans Grandmother Bowers was filthy rich,” Jackie said.
    â€œThat right, Dad?” the boy asked.
    â€œYes. She was worth millions.”
    â€œUmm,” Tracy said, rubbing Lucas’s arm. “I knew I made the right choice.” She laughed.
    â€œYou’re looking at the poorest millionaire in the world, kid,” Lucas told his wife. “Anyway, all her wealth was to be divided between keeping Ira in the best institution in the world—that means he would have probably been sent to Europe—where he would have lived out his life in as much luxury as could be bought for him, and the other part of her holdings would be placed in an interest-bearing account and the money used to keep this house and the grounds around it, some three hundred and ninety acres, intact, well-kept, and in the family name. The taxes on a place this size would stagger the imagination. Her will laid it all out, very neat and plain, and very unbreakable. I won’t try to explain all the legal jargon to you kids. It comes down to this: as long as the taxes are paid, the house and the grounds must remain intact. Well, of course the taxes are paid—the woman left millions of dollars. The place cannot be broken up and sold. That’s firm and legal. It can only be sold as a whole unit, house and grounds together. And I couldn’t even begin to think of doing that until Ira was declared legally dead by the courts. Unfortunately for us, nobody wants the damn place, and I sure can’t blame them. There just aren’t that many Howard Hughes’s around.”
    â€œLucas,” Tracy said, after taking a bite of her sandwich, “what was wrong with your brother? To be committed so young . . . ”
    â€œI will level with you all: I don’t know. Mom and Dad never— never —talked about Ira. We moved from Vermont to New York City when I was six—I guess just after Ira was committed. And, of course, if something isn’t discussed with a young child, the child forgets it. I summered in Vermont with my grandparents until I was sixteen. That’s when it all fell apart. My Grandfather Taylor told me one time, and one time only; it was the only time he ever talked about Ira—that Ira was evil. Granddad Taylor said the boy was born with the mark of the beast on him, whatever the hell that means. That’s all I know about my brother. I tried to find out more about him after I got in law school. I wrote the State of Georgia—”
    â€œThat’s odd,” Tracy said. “Why was he institutionalized down here?”
    â€œThere again, Trace—I don’t know. Never could find out. The state had closed that place years before I ever wrote my inquiry. Records had been lost, misplaced, all screwed up. And you cannot—you cannot —imagine the legal hassle of getting so-called confidential records of the mentally ill. It is absurd. It was then I began to sympathize with cops; about the wall of silence concerning doctor/ patient relationships and records. I gave up after a year of beating my head against the