Divine 05 - Nevermore

by Melanie Jackson

  “Pizza? The Italian pie? I am not certain. The few I have tried have been less than exemplary.”

  “I’m not speaking of just any pizza. Some subjects can only be raised around here if they are discussed in the most glowing terms.”

  “Like motherhood,” Emerson supplied helpfully. “And God and country.”

  Obviously he didn’t watch much cable television news, but I went along with the theme.

  “And Nona’s pizza. But we have to do something about the whole Prince of Darkness thing first. This is Irish Camp, not New York. Even without the mustache, you are too Poe for safety.”

  “What do you suggest?” he asked, un-offended and possibly even amused.

  “Well….I know! I have just the thing down in the back bedroom. Harrison’s Aunt Millie sent him this sweater for Christmas. He never got to wear it—and probably wouldn’t have worn it anyway—but it’s perfect for making you seem….” I searched for a polite word as I hurried down the back hall. “I think it will make you more approachable. More casual.”

  The door creaked as I opened it, announcing that the room was mostly abandoned. I kept my back to the bed and the vase of dead flowers on the nightstand. I didn’t want to explain them and knew Emerson would notice if I flinched when I saw them. Harrison had ordered the roses for me the day before he died. They had been waiting for me when I got home from the hospital, where the doctor in the ER had pronounced my husband dead. I couldn’t stand to see them, but I couldn’t throw them away either, so in the back room they remained, a faded ghost that haunted me when I ventured through the door. For a long while there had also been a quilt on the bed bearing an obviously human shape. Harrison had been suffering from a cold the week he died and had thoughtfully taken his cough to the guest bedroom. That bit of patchwork had carried his imprint and it seemed maybe a part of his spirit. It had been left to Clarice to finally fold the quilt and put it away. She had understood why I cried, but she did it anyway. For my own good.

  The drawer of the old chest was inclined to stick since whoever had painted it last had decided to paint the runners. Used to having to yank hard, I nearly sent the drawer flying.

  “Oops. I forget that I’m stronger now.” I pulled out the sweater and didn’t bother to hide my grin as I displayed it. It was dark blue and had a deer, a pair of pine trees and a selection of snowflakes that were disproportionately large. Emerson looked skeptical so I said: “They’ll be so busy looking at the sweater that they won’t even see you.”

  I felt a little bad putting him in silly clothing that did not suit his dignity. An Emerson without tasteful dark clothing was like Notre Dame Cathedral without its gargoyles and flying buttresses.

  “I suppose. Needs must when the devil drives.” He sighed.

  “At least it should fit.”

  I left him to it. Though all that was required that he pull the sweater on over his head, it still felt a bit too intimate an act for near-strangers to be sharing.

  Iggy Gordon, my insurance agent, called right before we left the house, ostensibly to see I wanted to file a claim for the damage to my wall and window, but really to find out if the story of the raccoon was true. Teeth gritted, I launched into the ridiculous story again. Not surprisingly, a chuckling Iggy was of the opinion that my claim would be denied by the head office. I said thanks anyway and hung up. At least I had made his day.

  “And may you be in heaven an hour before the devil knows you’re dead, you nosy bastard” I said to the phone.

  “You look very nice though you are clearly annoyed with that man.”

  “My insurance agent. He’s a friend of Dave’s.” Iggy Gordon was repulsive, not in the face but at gut-level where I had given up fighting the dislike. I had never been able to get a read on him. Logic is of the mind, instinct of the body. The gooseflesh that always rose in his presence said he was potentially bad for me even if I never knew anything specific about his private life. You’ve heard the expression about not touching someone with a ten foot pole? Well, make mine twenty feet and I still wouldn’t touch him. If I could think of a reason to do it, I would switch agents, but he was the only game in town. Still, it wouldn’t surprise me if we someday discovered that Iggy was a serial killer.

  I smoothed my hair and forced my scowl away. I had known the male kafeeklatsch would be hard at work thanks to Dave’s big mouth and small town curiosity. Normally I would have convinced myself I didn’t mind the gossip, but my feelings had become more definite in the last days and I no longer felt like turning a blind eye when I knew it was derision or even malice I faced in my neighbors. These had been the people who called me names as a kid. Screw them.

  “Well, let’s be off. I’m near starving.” I was catching Emerson’s older style of speech. I said nothing about the sweater which masked his identity about as well as Clark Kent’s glasses hid Superman. Of course, most everyone seemed to fall for the Clark Kent disguise so maybe I was worrying over nothing.

  My steps were lighter than usual as we waded through the snow. Emerson thought I looked nice. The idea wedged in my brain, pushing out any lingering annoyance with Iggy’s nosiness. I hadn’t dressed up exactly. We were walking through drifts to go to a pizza parlor, for heavensake, but I found myself pleased with Emerson’s compliment. It was not a total accident that I chose to wear a cashmere sweater in deepest red and broke out my Siren Song lipstick. Instead of sensible snow boots, I was wearing something that leaked but had a bit of heel that did nice things for the fit of my jeans.

  The road off Viper Hill where I live is really more of tunnel than a street. Ancient oaks covered in yellowed mistletoe have overgrown the street, making it a dark and mysterious place. Even in winter when they dropped their spiked leaves, the parasitic mistletoe still clings to the bare limbs in great golden falls, casting the lower stretch of the road into a perpetual twilight. Its uncanny nature aside, it is also not the safest place for a pedestrian because the ancient tree trunk are so thick that there is nowhere to step if a car take the sharp corners wide. Still, the residents always walk into town when it snows. It’s a matter of pride in our mountain-strong legs. And also because the snow plow can’t get up there. Besides, there is almost no parking in the old town, designed when the only traffic was a weekly stagecoach and the odd mule team or horse.

  I walked cautiously, ears and other senses straining for the sound of cars as we crabbed guardedly down the icy hill. I had not entirely shaken off the feeling that some vision was forming and wanted to make sure I was paying attention to my physical surroundings, which I sometimes forgot to do when the sight was near. The road was slick with mud and loose gravel under the new snow and our footsteps were louder than I liked. I heard a cawing overhead and saw that a raven was following us, hopping through the naked trees.

  “A friend of yours?” I asked softly.

  “Potentially. With ravens one never really knows.”

  In common with most gold country settlements, Irish Camp had a Main Street and a Church Street, a Gold Street and a Silver Street. There are even a few named after presidents and war heroes. What we didn’t have was an Easy Street—real or figurative. Nothing had been easy for individuals who came west looking for gold or silver or freedom from their past. Things weren’t all that easy now either, though we did have electricity, cable and indoor plumbing.

  Our little village is not especially attractive, though the downtown area strives for quaint and touristy and mostly succeeds when dusted with snow. What we really are is sinewy and hard-bitten—and we have learned to survive life’s curve balls and cruelties. That means a certain amount of compromise between the colorful past and the comfortable present that tourists are looking for when they vacation. In spite of protests from the oldsters, modern life and its conveniences haven’t completely passed us by—thank heavens—and one of those modern innovations in Nona’s Pizza Parlor (Video Games and 8 Flavors of Ice Cream!!!! Clean Restrooms!!!). Irish Camp has a lot of hybrid businesses and business peop
le who wear more than one hat. Some even make sense since certain jobs are seasonal; Ed’s is where you go to hire a canoe or fishing guide in July, and who you call when you need a snow plow or sand for your driveway in winter. Other businesses are more strange though. We have Rod’s Bait & Tackle and Notary Republic. There is Mel’s Accounting, Storage Lockers & Towing. And my personal favorite, Paula’s Taxidermy and Taxes.

  We passed the sheriff’s office on the way to Nona’s and it was empty except for a lone deputy and a cat in the window. Of course, since the office was just a desk squeezed between a bathroom and a broom closet that was about all that would comfortably fit.

  Next door was the local radio station that aired a lot of local groups—that night the grammar school orchestra (I guess because there isn’t enough pain and suffering in local news). The sound made me wince even through the wall. I listen in during sweeps-week when they actually air some of our local Celtic bands, but mostly I relied on CD’s to fill my musical needs.

  There are bronze plaques laid into the sidewalk and I smiled as Emerson read them. Eventually he figured out that they were not commemorating famous people or events but rather famous frogs. The bronzes are always filthy out in front of the Three Legged Mule. It is only half a block from Nona’s but oceans away when measured socially. There was almost no overlap in clientele.

  “Mark Twain country,” I explained. “They have a jumping frog contest every year. And here’s Nona’s.” No one was loitering outside in the cold sun though there was a handsome wrought iron bench in front of the steamy windows. That didn’t mean the parlor wasn’t busy though. It never was empty during business hours. On a successful Saturday night, even in winter, hordes of patrons would gobble pizza and drink beer until the parlor closed and then they would lurch their way out to icy streets, those not wearing snow boots or hiking shoes using the Victorian ironwork fences around the Mason’s graveyard and the red church as canes and crutches while they pulled themselves hand-over-hand along the icy sidewalks.

  The parlor wasn’t crowded, just what I had previously thought of as pleasantly full. Our population was not entirely lacking in pigmentation but we are probably ninety percent Wonderbread and at the height of our winter pale we can cause snow-blindness. I reassured myself that no one would notice my bleached skin among so much white.

  “Mmm.” I inhaled as we walked in the door, closing my eyes and allowing myself a moment of nostalgia as I stamped the snow from my boots onto the rectangle of fake grass Nona kept by the door. My nose was working overtime and I could smell every pie that was in the oven. It almost compensated for the vague odor of perspiration and foot odor rising from the patrons who had hiked in for dinner.

  “Goodness. That is strong garlic,” Emerson murmured.

  “People have been known to beg for mercy after eating her garlic pizza.”

  “Before or after their breath set someone’s hair afire?”

  I laughed softly, but stopped at the tap on my shoulder.

  “Hi, Anna. We haven’t seen you for a month of Sundays. Been busy with the magazine? Or was it that raccoon?” Millie’s question was directed at me but her eyes were on Emerson. She was not alone in her curiosity. Clearly Dave had been busy here too. I was again touched by a small shiver of unease, but it disappeared quickly and again I didn’t say anything about the brief pressure in my head.

  “Let me order for us,” Emerson said, turning away from the hungry eyes that observed us from all corners of the room. I nodded and hoped that he didn’t like anchovies. At least he didn’t look eerily pale. Thanks to the poor lighting, everyone in Nona’s looked like they had hepatitis. There aren’t many places anymore where jaundice looks normal but you expected it in the dim light with the orange and gold shag carpet that had gotten a bit thin since the days when Nona’s still had enough pretense of class that they had music to dance to on Saturday nights and occasionally shampooed the spilled soda and salad dressing out of the rug by the salad bar.

  “A root beer for me, okay?” I said to Emerson’s back and smiled my inane social smile. I retreated from Millie, chose a table by the curtained window, a little away from everyone and the arcade games, but didn’t kid myself that there would be any real privacy for us.

  Everyone seemed to be talking and laughing much louder than necessary for a small enclosed space. Gary Waring, the butcher, was demonstrating how to cut up a pig. I have always thought that he loved his job a little too much.

  I looked around carefully and saw that a lot of my neighbors were wearing smiles that looked fake and a bit uneasy, like dogs crowded together and expecting a fight. Had it always been this way and I was only just noticing because my senses had been deranged from their numb complacency and grief? Or did they sense some new evil hovering over the town?

  We’d been inside less than a minute and already I could hear snippets of a half dozen conversations and had to make sure my face didn’t rearrange itself with disgust—heard he’s a cousin but he sure doesn’t look like anyone’s cousin and he’s staying at Anna’s house…I’ve spent so much time shoveling shit out of that barn that I might as well send out change of address cards….My bowel couldn’t get anymore irritated if there was tsunami in it…. Alice said Damien tried that Viagra stuff but it didn’t do any good because he’s still a stupid little penis…. Not like that one over there. He’s Anna’s cousin? Why don’t my cousins look like that?…. About as much fun as amputation. I mean the baby’s diaper is radioactive. Someone should call homeland security…. new girlfriend, the town poisoner, says she’s cookin’ my birthday dinner. I’d sooner lick my own scrotum than eat her vegan crap. The girl’s had a complete brain bypass anyway. Hell, my dog’s a better cook. What did I ever do to my son that he would want—

  “So, that’s your cousin?” Millie’s voice interrupted. The woman was dogged. I could smell the beer on Millie’s breath as she leaned over and made an effort not to recoil. I was still getting used to my heightened senses.

  “Sort of.” Realizing that I didn’t want to get caught in a lie by someone who was familiar with my genealogy I said: “He’s here on business too.”

  “He’s a writer then?” Millie asked. She sounded surprised. I’d done my best to make Emerson looked harmless and nerdy, but had somehow failed. I think it might have been the long hair and gaunt rock star looks.

  “Yes— and an artist. From back east. He’s doing the illustrations for the February issue of Golden Words.” Was she growing a carbuncle on her nose? Her face powder was flaking away and I was having to make an effort not to stare. Frankly, all my neighbors seemed uglier than I remembered.

  “He’s staying at the inn?” She knew he wasn’t.

  “No, with me. You know writers don’t have any money,” I said. Millie sometimes wrote for Golden Words and knew how little we paid. “Besides, he is a friend and some distant cousin of Harrison’s,” I added, feeling inspired. I added a smile hoping it would help her toward belief in my story. Harrison had an enormous family scattered all over the Eastern seaboard so it wasn’t improbable. “You can’t ask family to stay at a hotel.”

  Millie nodded. In our town, that would be considered the height of bad manners. Families stayed with family even if it led to bloodshed.

  “Too bad he wasn’t here to help with the raccoon. I heard you shot out your window.”

  “I don’t think he would have been much help. He’s terribly shy and gentle and lives in a big city,” I confided. “I don’t know how much I’ll introduce him around tonight. You know how it is with artists.” Artists and writers other than Millie. The part-time broker hadn’t a retiring bone in her body, but the myth of the reclusive artists was popular and I figured she’d buy it. I had another brainstorm. I lowered my voice. “He also has a little bit of a stutter when he’s nervous, so be sure not to stare if he says anything.”

  “Of course not!” She was a gossip, not a bully. She would only talk about his stutter behind his back. “My lips are sealed.” Onl
y her labial Tupperware had never sealed all that tightly and eventually everything leaked out. She thought of this as being honest rather than rude.

  Emerson turned and looked at me as I lied to my neighbor. His thin lips quirked. I was glad he was amused. I owed him two now—one for the stupid sweater and one for giving him a stutter.

  “We’ve been working so hard, I thought we would have a treat and eat out tonight. I had no idea it would be so busy on a week night.” I hadn’t gone out much after Harrison died. Maybe that was why there was so much curiosity about us. I hoped it was something that innocuous.

  Emerson arrived at the table carrying a pitcher of root beer and two glasses. Neither had ice, I was glad to see. It was plenty chilly enough and my teeth were—or at least had been—sensitive to cold. Maybe that unpleasantness had disappeared too. Our pouring out ritual and the passing of napkins gave me an excuse to break off conversation with Millie. There was no need to tell Emerson that he was Harrison’s stuttering artist cousin from back east. He had heard everything.

  Dave arrived a few minutes later and stopped by our table as he made his way through the room. He was wearing a plaid shirt the color of a dirty restroom floor and accompanied by a two-stork job, Mary Lou Houston and her twin widowed sister, Ellie Ann Steele. We don’t have a lot of truck and trailer names among the natives, who prefer brevity and take names like Slim and Digger, but these two were imports from Missouri and had a soft spot for any reasonably good-looking men with jobs. They must have been on the prowl that night because both women were wearing a lot of make-up, high heels and large geological specimens on both hands and more in their ears. Women don’t endure that much pain unless they want something.

  Though Dave’s voice had never especially bothered me before, now it grated. I could also smell what I finally recognized was a low-grade arousal seeping from his pores. That it might be directed at me and not his companions was repellant.