Chariot - [Millennium Quartet 03]

by Charles L. Grant

  They nodded.

  “And it was...?”

  They shook their heads, Moonbow giggling.

  He stared at them for a minute, trying to read their faces, then shook his head. “Good grief, don’t tell me it was your mother.”

  “Not hardly,” Starshine said, giving him a look that made him lift a hand in an apology he wasn’t sure she accepted.

  He checked the street, scanning each of the houses, trying to figure out which one of them had the clout, not to mention the money, to get Freneau out in such a short time. Not to mention doing something to prevent the victim from pressing charges. It didn’t take long to eliminate the whole block, and he felt really, briefly, incredibly stupid for even suggesting Jude’s name.

  He was about to give up, when the girls scrambled to their feet and dashed off the porch. “Hey,” he called.

  “Late,” Starshine called back. “See you later maybe.”

  “But who?”

  Their laughter made them stumble, but only when they reached the middle of the street did Moonbow suddenly change direction and race back to him. “Eula,” she said, waggling her eyebrows. “Can you believe it, it was Eula.”

  * * * *

  2

  For a while, Trey remained where he was, watching the street, wondering why someone like Eula would help out someone like Rog Freneau. Christian charity aside, it didn’t make much sense.

  When his legs began to protest, he stood, still leaning against the post, arms folded. He watched Muriel Carmody lumber across the street toward Freneau’s house, with what looked like a casserole in her hands. He didn’t wonder about that; Muriel would want to know all the details, and wouldn’t be satisfied getting them secondhand. She had never been above a little gastronomic bribery. She had tried it on him when he’d first taken the house, and when he hadn’t finished the meal—dry mashed potatoes, fresh green beans boiled soggy, and the world’s heaviest meat loaf—she had taken it so personally she barely spoke to him now. Hadn’t learned anything, either, so he figured it was a fair trade.

  She knocked once on Freneau’s front door and went in, too far away to see if she was smiling or not. He waited a few seconds, then shrugged and shifted over to the chair. Opened the pack and pulled out a cigarette. Rolled it between his fingers as if it were an expensive cigar, staring at the tip, the filter, while he debated paying a visit on old Roger himself. A look to his right, through all the porches up to Freneau’s house, and he changed his mind. Muriel was still there. His gaze drifted across the street, to the house opposite Roger’s: Eula’s place. Back or not, he wondered, and figured, probably not. He couldn’t hear any music, and the house, even at this distance, looked flat out empty.

  Just a feeling, but he thought it was empty.

  Like the street now—empty, silent, pressed flat under the sky and heat.

  He lit the cigarette, blew smoke, and watched it hang there, curling in upon itself, forming a cloud that seemed too lazy to drift away.

  Like an old man long retired, he thought then, and smiled briefly. He’s sitting on the porch like an old man, waiting for something to happen in a place where hardly anything ever happened. Waiting for a chance to have a word or two with a neighbor, except the neighbors weren’t coming around, weren’t anxious to fill him in on all the latest gossip.

  Even if everyone had been in the street, he’d still feel as if there was no one here.

  Funny, that no one had come around to see him earlier, wake him from his afternoon sleep, eager to tell him about old Rog and his. . . Good-God, with a clipboard?

  Funny, that people who depended on the city for a living had decided to give the city a pass on the busiest night of the week, and didn’t seem to care that they might lose their jobs for it. Especially Stephanie. For every one of her, there were scores more waiting for her to turn an ankle, break a leg, get the damn Sickness so they could step in and prove they were a Star.

  It wasn’t like her; and it sure wasn’t like Cable to let her do it without a fight.

  A glance toward their house, and he figured it must have been one hell of a fight.

  Funnier still, that he even thought being out of the loop was odd. Except for the girls, and once in a while Jude, he was always out of the loop, a situation that had never bothered him before because, for the most part, he encouraged it. Had gotten used to it. Which made it odd that he even realized it now.

  Whoa, he told himself; you’re gonna make yourself dizzy, thinking in circles like that.

  What you should do, young man, is get up off your lazy butt, grab your wallet and keys, and do likewise as the statuesque Stephanie—get to the store and replenish the larder. Maybe, though, not so much beer this time. A decisive nod at the practicality of the notion, and the admonition, but it took him ten more minutes before he made to stand. And only then because he couldn’t wait any longer for Muriel to leave.

  Do it when you get back, he told himself; drop in when you get back, neighbor to neighbor, guy to guy. If she’s not gone by then, Roger will bless you for the interruption and no doubt number you among his heirs.

  The slam of a car door stopped him.

  A taxi down at the T, and Eula already heading up the street.

  Still in her green.

  He scowled. If he got up now, she’d see him and assume he was leaving because of her, an awkward situation even if they didn’t get along. So he picked up the soda can in his right hand, held the cigarette in his left, crossed his legs at the ankles and waited until she was abreast of the house. Moving slowly, that purse held against her stomach with her green-gloved hands folded across it, that green hat shading her face.

  In for a penny, he thought.

  “Evening, Eula.”

  Two steps before she stopped, and turned slowly to face him. Then, thick and honey slow: “Evening, Mr. Falkirk.”

  “Have a good trip?”

  “Always do.” A polite smile, not showing her teeth. “Always do.”

  “Where were you this time?”

  “Oklahoma. Lovely place, but powerful flat. Nothing but sky out there, Mr. Falkirk, nothing but sky.”

  Without thinking: “Saved some souls, I hope.”

  The smile again, chiding. “Not my job, Mr. Falkirk. I leave that to the pastors. I just bring the songs, that’s all. Just bring the songs.”

  He leaned forward, thinking this wasn’t going so badly after all. “Speaking of which, can I ask you a question?”

  Barely moving, it was as if she had settled herself in a big comfortable chair. “If I can.”

  Damn, Trey, he thought; what the hell are you doing?

  A breeze kicked up out of the south, easy and steady, right to left down the street; not cooling things off, just moving the heat around.

  “The other night, going into town, I heard . . . well, I suppose it used to be called a spiritual? I don’t know. It was ‘Good News,’ you know it? Only they did it like, I guess, the kind of music you do. Faster than I’m used to hearing it, that’s for sure. I almost didn’t recognize it.” He put the can down. “The thing is, I don’t know who did it and I’d like to get a copy, and I was wondering if you knew it. That version, that is.”

  She pursed her lips, lifted her face to the sun, squinting a little. “I believe . . . yes, I believe I do know what you’re talking about, Mr. Falkirk.” A single shake of her head. “Don’t know that I know who, though. Eddie Hawkins? Angels of Mercy?” An apologetic lift of her shoulders. “So many these days, Mr. Falkirk, so many out there that I can’t keep them all straight. Best you can do is go to a store, ask around.”

  He sat back. “Okay, thanks.”

  She didn’t move. Waiting, as if she understood there was something more. Like, what have you got against me, Eula? Patient.

  Smiling.

  He returned the smile, and wished he hadn’t said anything. This was more than they’d spoken since the beginning, and he had no idea what to say next, what the protocol was.

 
; “You know,” she said, “seems there’s been some trouble between us.”

  Startled, he blinked, and nodded cautiously.

  “Why do you think that is, Mr. Falkirk? Why do you think there be trouble between us?”

  “Honest?”

  One nod.

  “I have no idea.” He tried a quick laugh. “I don’t even know you, Eula. I mean, not really know you, so I haven’t a clue.”

  “Well. . .”‘ Another shift, hardly moving, settling again. “I don’t think it’s on account of my skin, do you? Don’t think it’s that. You don’t appear to me to be that kind of man.”

  Soft, now; still honey, but soft. Forcing him to strain in order to hear her.

  “You’re no singer, Mr. Falkirk, so I don’t believe it’s professional jealousy, something like that, don’t think that’s it at all.”

  A stirring along the street.

  He didn’t look, and the houses were too far apart for him to see anyone else without turning his head, but he felt a stirring along the street.

  “Ain’t your gambling. I do disapprove of that sort of activity, but then, so do most of the others, and you don’t seem to have a trouble with them like you do with me, so I suppose it isn’t that, either.” The smile broadened. “And you’d best put that cigarette out quick, it’s gonna burn your fingers.”

  He checked, saw it was true, and let the cigarette drop to the porch where he made to crush it with his heel, remembering just in time that he wasn’t wearing any shoes. Instead he used the can to grind it into the concrete. When he looked up again, the smile was gone, and for a moment, just a moment, he felt as if he were back at Madame Song’s and it was Harp out there in his cowboy hat, not Eula Korrey, all in green.

  Or, an old man sitting on his porch, talking to an old woman standing in the street.

  It was just the image he needed, and he grinned. “So where does that take us, Eula? Doesn’t seem like we really have anything to fight about, right?”

  A little, dust devil danced around the empty lot across the street, defying the breeze, tilted as if it were topheavy somehow.

  “I wasn’t aware, Mr. Falkirk, that we were fighting,” she said. “Exactly.”

  He gave up. He uncrossed his legs, and gave up. This wasn’t getting them anywhere. He had hoped, he supposed, that by being polite, being neighborly, he’d be able to clear the air of whatever hung between them. But it occurred to him abruptly that her out-loud musings were nothing more than mocking attempts to unearth the problem.

  She didn’t care.

  The realization was both a relief and annoying. It wouldn’t be the first time that two people simply didn’t like each other, no explanation necessary. What annoyed him, however, was the apparent fact that she understood this as well, and mocked him for the attempt.

  “You been talking to that old man, Mr. Falkirk?”

  The dust devil grew, still dancing, straight now, almost as tall as a man.

  Trey sat up, hands flat on the armrests. “I. . . what?”

  “The old man with the dead serpents on his feet. You been talking to him.”

  This was too much. She had been in Oklahoma, for crying out loud, how did she know about Harp and his wife? It was as if half the world that knew him didn’t give a damn, and the other half watched him so closely they even knew what he looked like while he slept. An idea that, however preposterous, momentarily chilled him.

  As did the idea that the dust devil, taller now, less transparent, was waiting over there for him to give it the word and it would sweep off the lot and engulf her.

  “What he tell you?” she asked, almost sweetly. “If you don’t mind an old woman asking, that is.”

  “I do,” he answered flatly, putting a quick hand up alongside his face when the breeze gusted, to keep sand from getting into his eyes.

  “No matter. You tell him for me, next time you see him, it’s a little too late for miracles, Mr. Falkirk. The kind he’s looking for, it’s a little too late.”

  She turned away, faced up the street, ready to leave.

  “Tell him yourself,” he snapped.

  “Oh, no.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “He too afraid of me for that.”

  That got him out of the chair. “What are you talking about? Are all you people crazy?”

  The urge to leave the porch, go to the street and face her down gave him two long strides before she looked at him again.

  And smiled.

  A smile of such sweet malevolence that he grabbed the post with one hand, as much for support as for something solid to hold on to. Something real.

  The dust devil collapsed, sand and pebbles pattering to the ground.

  He narrowed his eyes against the strengthening breeze as she walked away. Then he blinked once, once again, and told himself quickly it was like seeing that image of Lil on the horse. A mirage. A hallucination. A bizarre trick of the light that made it seem as if the wind didn’t touch her at all. Her hat didn’t quiver, her coat didn’t flutter, no dust at all on any of all that green.

  Grabbing the post more tightly he watched her, and saw the girls on their porch, hands at their sides; saw Cable on his porch, without his cap, wearing good slacks and a clean white shirt; saw Hicaya on his porch, gloved hand pressed to his stomach; saw Muriel back on her porch, hands clasped at her waist.

  Eula lifted a hand.

  Every one of them waved and smiled.

  Damn, he thought; God . . . damn.

  Bewildered, thinking he ought to be afraid but not knowing of what, he backed slowly to the door, fumbled behind him for the latch, and backed inside, kicking his heel against the doorsill and nearly falling. Another backward step, and he spun around, charged into the kitchen, and skidded to a halt.

  Sir John waited for him at the back door.

  There was a gun in his hand. ,

  “My dear fellow,” he said sadly, “I’m so terribly sorry for all this, but I’m afraid you’re going to have to accompany me for a while.”

  * * * *

  2

  The rustle of sand driven through the grass.

  The low hum of the wind slipping around corners.

  * * * *

  “Say it,” Jude insists from behind the safety of the screen door.

  “Don’t want to,” Moonbow pouts.

  “Say it!”

  Starshine inhales; it sounds like a whimper.

  “Please, girls. For Momma. Say it.”

  The sisters look at each other, look out at the street, sun full in their eyes.

  Jude slaps the doorframe lightly.

  Starshine jumps. “Evening, Eula,” she says, barely-above a whisper.

  “Louder,” Jude insists.

  Moonbow wants to turn around because it sounds like her mother is crying; she doesn’t, because if there are tears she doesn’t want to see them.

  Starshine settles her shoulders. “Evening, Eula.”

  Moonbow nibbles on her lower lip before: “Evening, Miss Korrey.”

  Eula looks over, nods, smiles. “You girls sure do look pretty.”

  “Thank you, Eula,” they, say together.

  Listening to their mother weeping behind them.

  * * * *

  Cable feels as if he ought to have his cap in his hand, something to twist, something to keep his fingers busy. Steph, he knows, will be royally pissed she missed the return, but there’s nothing he can do about it but hope he says and does the right thing.

  Whatever Eula says to those little brats across the street is taken away by the wind, and he waits until she’s looking up the street again before he says, “Welcome back, Eula, have a good trip?”

  “Indeed I did, Cable,” she answers, giving him a smile that makes her cheeks round and full. “A wonderful trip, surely one of the best.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Yes,” she says, turning her face away. “I know that, Cable. I know.”

  * * * *

  Ricardo is nervous, for
no reason he can think of. He watches Eula make her way toward him, pays no attention to Muriel across the way, who doesn’t seem to know how to stand. She shifts constantly, looking like she wants to run inside and hide. That’s not his concern. He pats the glove with his good hand, trying to calm its trembling. A quick look left, down his side of the street, past the empty house next to him, to the Olins’, where he sees Cable nodding at Eula’s back, rocking back and forth like someone waiting for the word that will tell him he can go inside now, it’s okay.