Silk and Stone

by Deborah Smith

  Mother burst into laughter and bent over Father, pounding his shoulders with her hands, making his pipe bounce in his mouth. “I’ve never seen anything like it. I swear, a couple of times I was sure women were going to whack each other with their Gucci purses. They’d snatch Sammie’s things from under each other’s noses. And get this, honey—a few of them were friends of Alexandra’s. But they couldn’t resist.”

  Jake exhaled with relief but wagged one blunt forefinger at Samantha accusingly. “You little poker-faced—”

  “I wanted to surprise you.” Her smile softened. She reached into a skirt pocket and produced a small bag woven in a Cherokee design. She unzipped it proudly and showed him a neatly folded wad of bills. “A thousand dollars,” she said, her voice awed. “I’ll put a down payment on a washer and dryer. And a sewing machine. The rest goes into our savings account.”

  He couldn’t feign exasperation any longer. He picked her up by the waist and swung her around. “As long as you’re happy, I’m happy.”

  “It’s not much money for a whole summer’s work,” she said, a little wistful and breathless. “But it’s a start. I took orders for a lot more. I’ll stay busy all winter.” She thumped his chest lightly. “Next spring we can buy furniture for the living room, and I’ll put some money away for Charlotte’s college—”

  “I’m going to cooking school,” Charlotte said firmly.

  “You’re going to college first, pink petunia,” Sam answered.

  Charlotte scowled. “Is making money going to turn you into Aunt Alex? So you know what’s best for me without asking me?”

  Everyone stared at her. Jake felt Sam’s immediate guilt and alarm. He squeezed her shoulders gently. She looked up at him, her expression chagrined, then turned toward her sister. “I suppose I did sound like her just then.”

  Charlotte chewed her lip. “Aw, Sammie, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

  “No, you’re right. You decide what you want to do, and I’ll help you.”

  “We’ll help her,” Jake corrected her.

  Sam gazed up at him tenderly. “It’s good to be home.”

  Alexandra tolerated the holiday rituals of a politician’s spouse in the same stoically determined manner with which she survived the other endless polite duties—the ribbon-cutting ceremonies, the boring dinners, the speeches to civic clubs. They were the dues she paid to get herself and Orrin into the governor’s mansion someday. She had perfected the art of the seamless smile, the pleasant expression of attention and concern, the warm handshake.

  Afterward she would retreat to the Tudor house on the outskirts of Raleigh, or to Highview, or the nearest posh hotel room—whatever was closest that day—and drink a double brandy.

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” she murmured for the hundredth time, moving down the line of people to press grimy outstretched hands. They were like patient ants waiting their turns to snatch crumbs at a picnic. The open door of a tractor-trailer was their destination, where volunteers from some charity group handed each a cardboard box packed with a turkey and canned goods. A cool wind blew in from brown hills dotted with sturdy wild cedars. Alexandra wished for the comfort of her furs, but had to settle for the prescribed humility of a down jacket and tailored slacks.

  The shabby line stretched across the cracked gray pavement of a parking lot of a run-down shopping center somewhere in a nameless part of the state; she had slept during the drive, accompanied by two of Orrin’s assistants, and she barely knew or cared precisely where they had deposited her.

  Like an actress with a traveling road show, she played the same part wherever the stage was set. Set Orrin’s assistants to work with the volunteers so it wouldn’t appear she had bodyguards by her side. Shake hands. Pass out a few boxes. Pose with the volunteers for a photographer from the local newspaper. Leave as quickly and as tactfully as possible.

  She had posed already, handed out boxes already. Now she had only to finish the ritual, call the aides over, and go. “Happy Thanksgiving,” she said to the next faceless charity case.

  A hand touched her shoulder. Stifling a frown at the presumptuous contact, she turned.

  Malcolm Drury gazed at her with teary-eyed regard. “Hello, Mrs. Lomax.” Shock and distrust poured through her. Alexandra managed to keep a gracious expression welded to her face. This living ghost had been consigned to a Bahamian prison years ago. When she’d thought of him at all, she’d assumed him dead.

  But he wasn’t. He was free, and here, though the past few years had obviously not treated him well. The dapper, sleek, spinelessly ingratiating con man who’d served her purposes was pale and thin, with receding brown hair and dark circles under his eyes. He was dressed in stained brown trousers and an army jacket with torn elbows; he smelled faintly of sweat and illness.

  “Excuse me, do I know you?” she finally managed to say, her voice carefully polite and puzzled.

  “I forgive you,” he said in a grating whisper only she could hear, and offered a pitiful smile. His teeth were stained; a front tooth was broken. But his eyes were cagey slits. “I’m dying. When I got sick, they let me out. I’m working as a janitor for a church in Raleigh. They got me a little apartment. And an old car. It’s hard. I’m at peace with myself.” He paused. “But life is hard.”

  Alexandra quickly took his arm and steered him away from the line of people. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know who you are.”

  He coughed—a raw, racking sound, thready with dismay. “It’s all right, Mrs. Lomax. I can’t hurt you. After what I went through down there in prison, I can’t hurt anybody.”

  Alexandra bent her head close to his. His stench and his pathetic, untrustworthy groveling made her head swim. “What do you want?” Her voice was soft and lethal.

  “Just to say I forgive you for what you did to me.”

  “I didn’t do anything to you. And if you think you can coerce me with your unprovable accusations and false piety, you’re sadly mistaken.”

  “You didn’t have to make sure I wouldn’t hurt you. I didn’t tell anyone about our deal. I got your sister’s money, and I left. I was minding my own business.”

  “You pathetic fool, you were no threat to me. Not then, not now.”

  “I know that,” he said, a whining undertone to his voice. “Why did you send someone to cause trouble for me? Why did you want me to suffer in a place where I wasn’t even treated like a human being?”

  “I never—” She halted, her thoughts racing. “What do you want?” she repeated, distracted, considering the options.

  “I just don’t want to die in a crummy hospital with the welfare types, Mrs. Lomax. That’s all.”

  “Let me think about it. Perhaps I can make some arrangements. Discreetly. It all depends on your willingness to keep your mouth shut.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Lomax, that would be wonderful.” He pressed a slip of paper into her hand. “Here’s my address.”

  “I’ll tell you who’s responsible for what happened to you. It certainly wasn’t me. I didn’t know anything about it at the time. I learned later.”

  His faded, watery eyes glittered. “Who?”

  She leaned close again. “It was the man who married Frannie’s eldest daughter. Jake Raincrow is his name. He lives in Pandora. He’s the one who tracked you down. And, no doubt, he’s the one who instigated your trouble. He’s the reason you were searched for drugs and sent to prison.”

  Malcolm mouthed the information slowly. A sickly flush rose in his gaunt cheeks. He trembled. There was no mistaking the rage that seeped into his eyes.

  Alexandra couldn’t stand him a moment longer. Her mind reeled with the consequences she might have set in motion. She took his hand as if gripping it kindly. Her fingernails dug into his sweaty palm, and he winced. Alexandra leveled a warning stare into his pained and angry eyes. “He’s married to my niece,” she repeated. “You have no quarrel with my niece.”

  “Oh, I don’t have any quarrel with anyone,” Malcolm answered. “I
’m not a vengeful person.”

  He turned and staggered off toward a ramshackle sedan, nearly running.

  Alexandra watched him as he drove away, wondering just what he’d do next. “Mrs. Lomax? One of Orrin’s aides was beside her. “Any problem with that god-awful character?”

  “Oh, no.” She said it sadly and shook her head. “He just wanted to tell me how much he admires my husband. Poor soul, he was so shy. I never even got his name.”

  Sam was tired and thoughtful and proud. The washer and dryer had been delivered while she and Jake were taking a shower; in her hurry to scrutinize them, she’d pulled on nothing more than one of Jake’s fresh T-shirts and a robe, then excitedly peered around a doorway as Jake and the delivery men wrestled the gleaming new appliances down the hall to the laundry room.

  Jake had managed a little more decorum—jeans and a crookedly buttoned flannel shirt.

  They connected the pipes and electrical lines, played with all the knobs, and stood in pleased silence, as if they’d become parents. Cozy afternoon light filtered through white curtains on a window above the appliances, and yellow leaves drifted past the windowpanes. The laundry room’s log walls filled her nose with a pleasant piney scent. Their light gold surface seemed to reflect the warm sunshine. The day was golden.

  “I never had my own washer and dryer before,” Sam said, her tone bittersweet. “Mom and Dad couldn’t afford them, and Dad said they’d get torn up if the army moved us very often, and then after he died, well, Mom wanted to buy them on credit, but I talked her out of it.” She hesitated, then added sadly, “We started a separate savings account to save up for them. But then Malcolm Drury showed up. He took everything—even the money in that account.” Sam looked at Jake miserably. “I wish she’d gotten her washer and dryer.”

  Jake stroked a hand over her damp hair. “It wasn’t your fault. She was lonely. She trusted him. You couldn’t have changed her mind about him.”

  “I think about him sometimes. Buying drugs with the money we slaved for. I like to picture him sitting in prison down in the Bahamas. I hope they have rats in the Bahamas. Big man-eating rats. I hope he never gets out.”

  “I expect he’s dead by now. He liked to keep moving. Trap him in one place and he’d claw his own skin. That kind of fear probably did him in.” When she looked at him oddly, Jake added, “From what you’ve told me about him.” Suddenly he pulled Sam toward him, cupped his hands under her elbows, and lifted her atop the washer. “There, queen. Test your throne. Stop thinking about rats. Think about baked turkey and dressing. Think about the belt-popping amount of grub your sister is cooking for Thanksgiving.”

  She gave him a subdued smile. He shook his head at her mood, reached around her, and fiddled with the washer’s dial. “Let’s put it on the spin cycle.”

  “Why?”

  “Just to tickle your fancy.” The machine hummed and began vibrating. Her eyes widened. “Hmmm.”

  “Now, wait a minute. Don’t enjoy it that much.”

  “Come closer. See for yourself. It’s like a massage.” A small rakish smile curled one corner of her mouth. Sam wrapped her legs around his hips and pulled him to her, then draped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him. “I need you,” she said wistfully. “I need to stop thinking.”

  “I know.”

  “Let’s have a little dedication ceremony.” She reached between them and unfastened his jeans. “This is the only room we haven’t, hmmm, dedicated yet.”

  He held her tightly. “Let’s take care of that right now.”

  Jake looked around the table as everyone settled in their chairs for Thanksgiving dinner. This was contentment—the family gathered peacefully under the soft glow of an old chandelier, the table decorated in Mother’s best lace cloth and china, platters and bowls and casseroles crowding one another for space, wonderful aromas rising from them. Ellie had come home from medical school for the holiday. Father wore his traditional Thanksgiving sweater—a moth-eaten relic Mother had given to him on the first Thanksgiving after they were married. Mother wore a necklace of garnets Jake and Ellie had made for her when they were children.

  Charlotte sat beside Samantha, perusing the food with an authoritative air, as if daring any of her creations to disappoint her.

  Samantha took Jake’s hand under the table, and her warm, loving grip made his contentment complete. Father pulled the turkey platter to him and lifted a serving fork. “Thank God for antacids,” he said. “Let’s eat.”

  “Hugh.” Mother eyed him with amusement and mild reproach. She gazed from him to everyone else, her eyes shining. “Thank God for this family.”

  “Yes,” Ellie said, her voice soft, her eyes pensive. “Please, God, let there be a lot more times like this.”

  Everyone looked at Jake, waiting. He frowned. They continued to wait. “God knows what I’m thinking,” he said finally.

  Samantha squeezed his hand and rescued him quickly. Her head bent slightly, she closed her eyes and said, “Take care of my mom and dad. Let them know they aren’t forgotten. Tell them their daughters will always love them. Tell them we have wonderful people around us. Thank you.”

  Leave it to Samantha to give God directions. But Jake met her misty eyes and nodded gently. Charlotte cleared her throat. They turned toward her. Tears slid down her flushed cheeks. “Ditto, God,” she said.

  Sam put an arm around her. The two of them gazed at Mother, Father, and Ellie. “We love all of you,” Sam said hoarsely.

  Mother was crying too. Ellie wiped her eyes and smiled. Father answered gruffly, “Well, ditto.”

  Everyone laughed. Sam looked at Jake again. The serenity in her expression completed his thanks.

  “ ’Night, El.” Jake stuck his head inside her bedroom door. “We’re heading home. See you tomorrow. Happy Thanksgiving.”

  She sat in a small wicker chair by the window, hooded by the dim light of a lamp on her night table. He had caught her with a look of distant sorrow in her eyes; she looked away quickly and smoothed a hand over her face. The simple chain necklace hung from her other hand, and the narrow leather pouch swung like a dark pendulum. Jake stepped into the room. “It’s making you unhappy. I’m glad you took it off. Put it away.”

  “I am.” She dropped the necklace on the windowsill. “It’s old. So old. I read somewhere that there are people like us who feel ancient history in the things they touch.”

  “I’ve read that too. They say strong emotions are left behind, like pictures that never quite fade. But I don’t feel that too much.”

  “You look at the here-and-now.”

  “Not always. I just try to concentrate on what’s important to me. Tracking people. Finding stones. Trying to understand how people think. What’s dead and gone, well, I don’t need to know.”

  She opened the pouch and pulled the ruby from it. “Everyone who’s owned this is dead—except me. And Alexandra.”

  “She never owned it. She took it for a while. She was never meant to keep it.” He looked at her solemnly, teasing a little, trying to change her mood. “And, El, maybe you haven’t covered this in medical school, but … everyone dies eventually. It’s a fact, ruby or no ruby.”

  Ellie lifted the ruby, holding it between her thumb and forefinger. It caught the light, a bloodred drop of memory. “You remember the stories Granny told us about the Uktena?”

  “Hmmm. Kept me checking under my bed at night for years.”

  “The terrible dragon-snake, with the crystal in its forehead. And after a man killed the Uktena and took the crystal, he had to protect it, and honor it, and hide it in a special place. If he didn’t care for it well enough, it would fly away and search for the Uktena, and kill people in revenge.” She laid the stone back on the sill and wiped her hand on her jeans. Jake said lightly, “I haven’t seen any flying crystals or Uktenas around.”

  “Maybe we just don’t recognize them.”

  “Put it away, El,” he said again. “You’ll have a daughter someday
. Save it for her.”

  “I won’t have any children.”

  He was surprised and a little angry at her for talking that way. He started to tell her so, but the phone rang in the hall, and he heard Father walking out of the living room to answer it. “We’ll talk about this more tomorrow,” Jake told her. “You’ve let that damned stone confuse you.”

  “Son,” Father called. “It’s for you. The sheriff’s office over in Cloudland Falls.”

  Frowning, Jake went to the phone. Samantha came out of the kitchen as he was talking, a box of neatly wrapped leftovers in her hands. He waved her over and peered into the box distractedly, the phone wedged between his shoulder and ear. She watched him with a worried frown, her head tilted to one side. Mother, Charlotte, and Father joined her. “All right,” he said to the caller finally. “I’ll meet you there in about an hour.”

  When he put the phone down, Samantha scrutinized him hard. “They can’t expect you to come out at night, on Thanksgiving.”

  “I gotta go. An old man wandered away from his granddaughter’s place this afternoon. He’s not quite right.” Jake pointed to his head. “They think he took a walk and forgot the way home.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Samantha said immediately.

  He shook his head. “Your being there would confuse Bo. He’ll think we’re on a picnic.”

  She wanted to argue, he could tell, but she bit her lip and studied him with resignation. “Sometime I’m going with you when you track people. I want to see how you do it.”

  Can’t tell you that, he thought. You’d think I was crazy. “Be cool, Sammie,” Charlotte interjected. “I’ll spend the night with you. I’ve got a brownie recipe I want to try. We’ll eat brownies and watch TV.”

  “The girl cooks nonstop,” Father said. “Incredible.”

  Samantha sighed. Jake cupped a hand beneath her hair and rubbed small, reassuring circles on the nape of her neck. She was thinking about a different kind of dessert, a recipe she and he kept testing enthusiastically. “I’ll probably be home by morning,” he said slyly. “Save something sweet for me.”