The Angel & the Brown-eyed Boy

by Sandy Nathan

  Veronica Edgarton’s rooms occupied the front of the mansion, thirty-five hundred square feet of space. Banks of small-paned windows filled the outside walls so she could view the gardens. When the weather permitted, she lounged on the stone patio beyond.

  The overhead lights focused on her bed. The crash pad. Thunderzone. Salome’s workshop. Screech and roll. Shriek-a-rama. He had lots of names for his mother’s bed. He had learned at a very early age that women have orgasms, and, when they do, they were often vocal. His mother, especially.

  He’d heard her all his life. Now, hearing even the tiniest whisper of passion left Jeremy shaking. He could feel the ecstasy in those sounds and the unmistakable energy emanating from that room. He was turned on and revolted. He loved her and hated her. Was tied to her with bonds he didn’t understand and couldn’t break.

  Every time his mother had someone in there—after his father died, someone was a major politico or world leader—the jungle burst forth.

  His room was as far as he could get from hers.

  Eliana walked into the dream room, wide-eyed, prancing on her hoof tips. “Pretty,” she said. Her eyes settled on the bed. “Jeremy!” She pointed at it, looking at the cushioned pleasure zone in awe. The bed was handwrought iron, swirls of metal forming the back, tall spires rising from each corner. A framework joined the canopy. Ostrich plumes graced the top and corners, and lustrous hangings draped to the floor.

  “Big,” Ellie said. That it was. She touched it, pushing down on the top with both hands. “Soff.” Yes. With the feather bed and down comforters, the bed was very soft. She jumped on it and lay down. “Sleep.” Yes. People slept there. She sat up.

  “You, me, Jeremy? Sleep here?” Her face was hopeful.

  “No!” He wouldn’t sleep there if it would save the planet. Her face dropped and she deflated.

  “It’s OK.” He smiled and pointed down the hall. “We’ll sleep back there.” His room had an adjoining bathroom that opened into another bedroom, just as nice as his. He’d put her there. She beamed.

  He pulled her up, grabbing her forearm the way he had before.

  “Not date,” she said.

  “No, it’s a date.” He offered her his arm properly and headed for a more neutral zone: his mother’s closets. There were five of them, counting the fur storage at the end, which kept her furs at fifty degrees and fifty percent humidity year-round. He opened the door. The lights went on, revealing four rooms arranged back to back like railroad cars with a wide corridor running down the middle. They were filled with exquisite clothing, one room for each season. The gowns and other garments were arranged by color. Each closet was fitted with elegant built-ins: cabinets, chests, benches.

  “Oh,” said Ellie. She looked at the hanging clothes, the chests of drawers containing accessories and jewelry. “What is?”

  “It’s my mom’s closet. She has something like this in all her houses. Come on, let’s get you something to wear.” She had on the kilt and that stupid coat. He wanted to see her in a pretty outfit. He thought of something: he wanted to dress up for their last night on earth, to go out in style.

  Jeremy went over to the intercom on the wall. “Hey, everyone. Let’s make it a party. Let’s get dressed up. All the bedroom closets have clothes in them. I’ll open the attics, too. There’s really cool stuff up there. Wear whatever suits you. Let’s use the good silver and china.”

  “That’s fine for you to say, Jeremy,” Lena’s voice came over the intercom. “Henry and I been working in the kitchen since we got here. If you think I’m going to clean the silver and set the table...”

  “No. We’ll do it ourselves. Let’s have a party tonight. Get out the champagne, and everything.” He didn’t drink, not after a couple of nights with the kids left him sick for days. But tonight was special.

  “Jeremy, I want to take a bath and put my feet up.”

  “Lena, do, please. Go in your room and relax. We can fix dinner. All of us. Like a family.”

  “OK, Jer. You got a party,” Mel replied. “Open up the attics. I want tails.”

  After punching a bunch of buttons on the wall-mounted control panel to unlock the attic and other doors, Jeremy turned to Eliana, who was meandering around the closet, pulling out sleeves and skirts. He looked at his mother’s clothes: silks and satins. Chiffon. An occasional daytime cotton. And some jeans. She went riding all the time, usually with Sam Baahuhd. They liked each other, which he considered one of nature’s oddities.

  “Jeremy mother beautiful.” Ellie stood before a tall chest loaded with small drawers. Instead of a mirror, a photo of his mother filled the wall above it. He couldn’t breathe, the image shocked him so much. It was old, from before his father died. His mother was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Blue eyes and black hair. White skin. Her expression in the photo was soft and loving. His father had taken it, he remembered. Jeremy turned away. She loved his father—that’s what her expression said. His mother loved the man. It came as a shock. He looked again.

  What was it like for her to watch him kill himself? To see him nodded out every time she turned her head? How did the soft woman in the photo feel?

  “El, let’s get you some clothes and get out of here.” Thinking he could pop into his mother’s closet and grab some stuff was stupid. Everything about his mother was a minefield.

  What could he find for Ellie to wear? His mother was built like a goddess. Mel had shown him a photo of an actress from the old days. A woman named Sophia Loren. His mother was like that, but with finer features and pale coloring.

  Jeremy turned to the chests and began rummaging. Buried under silk lingerie he could hardly bear to touch, he found and pulled out the unexpected—a flannel nightgown and robe. Such practical things in his mother’s closet seemed strange, but they showed that even she got cold. He kept them for Ellie.

  “Look, Jeremy.” Her eyes sparkled. “I like.” She’d pulled out the skirt of a white silk dress, a diaphanous thing of many layers, all handpainted in shades of blue. Sequins and beads followed the painted designs.

  “Do you think it will fit you?” He reached up and got it for her. He’d never seen his mother wear this dress. He realized why immediately: the top was way too small for her. She’d bought it on impulse, because it was so beautiful.

  “Do you want to try it on, Ellie?” It had laces in back that could tighten it so it would fit her. He could tie the tiny straps in knots to shorten them.

  When he turned around, she smiled at him, holding out her hand to take the dress. She was stark-naked. Her rumpled blouse, kilt, and coat lay where she’d dropped them.

  He flopped into a chair, gaping. She stood there, the first naked girl he’d seen. She was perfect. A dancer’s short-waisted, long-legged body. Perfect posture: lovely, upright, erect, but soft and relaxed. Her breasts were small, perfectly proportioned, but small.

  That was a wonderful gift after being haunted by his mother’s giant flappers—small breasts. Trim tummy. No fat at all anywhere, that he could make out. No belly button. That was a shock, overwritten for the moment by the sweet swell of her hips. She turned away, stepping into the dress. Perfect ass. His hands shook. What was he supposed to do?

  Then he saw it: a streak of dried blood running down her leg from her crotch to inside her knee.

  “Did he hurt you?” Jeremy leapt up and grabbed her shoulders. “Did that asshole hurt you?”

  She stepped back, looking scared.

  “Richard? Did he hurt you?” He pointed to the blood on her leg.

  She seemed as surprised as he had been. “What is?”

  “It’s blood, baby, what you have inside you. Did he do that?”

  “Suck my cock,” she said, in the exact tone of Richard’s voice. She looked down. Her shoulders hunched and she looked like she would fall to the ground.

  “Oh, baby,” he grabbed her and held her tight. “Oh, baby. I’m so sorry. Did he make you do anything?”

  She shook her head, sol
emn and wide-eyed.

  “Did he?” Jeremy pointed to his crotch.

  She shook her head and held up her hand, fingers together making a point. She moved her hand as Richard had.

  “Oh, baby. I’m so sorry.” He held her until she stopped trembling. “I’ll make it better for you, OK?”

  He knotted the dress’s spaghetti straps so they wouldn’t flop. He tucked them in and laced up the back of the dress. He turned her around. “You look beautiful!”

  She threw her arms around him and rubbed her forehead on his chin. It was weird, but adorable.

  “OK, accessories.” He pulled out a beaded purse for her. It was a flowery multicolored thing with bead fringes. “For your stuff.” She looked at him. He opened it. “See. Opens. Put your stuff”—he pointed at the coat pocket—“stuff here.”

  She nodded as she realized what he meant. Taking the bag, she huddled over the coat, taking whatever was in the pocket out and putting it in the purse. Light flashed before the clasp closed.

  “OK. A wrap for my lady. Would you like mink? Sable? Chinchilla?” He led her to the end of the rooms. The doors to the fur storage were glass. Inside, racks of furs, every kind and color, hung at careful intervals. “The cold and humidity will keep them perfect forever.” He opened the doors and picked an ermine cape, turning to her.

  Her face had paled. Her hands were by her mouth. “Báslikay!” She touched the fur. “No! Báslikay!” She indicated the whole vault. “Báslikay!”

  “No, it’s not a dog cape. They aren’t from dogs. They’re from mean animals. Mink.” He made faces with big teeth and held his hands like claws. “They’d bite you. They’re mean.” She still looked appalled.

  “OK, no báslikay coat.” He closed the vault and turned off the light. “Here. Here’s a nice velvet cape. You like this?” It was dark blue silk velvet and had a tasseled hood. Must have been short for his mother, since it was floor-length on her. “See, that’s perfect.” He had to get out of this room. But there was something else.

  “Here, you can clean up with this.” He took her to his mother’s dressing table. Inside was every cream, oil, unguent, and perfume ever made. He got her some washcloths and towels, and mimicked washing the inside of his leg. “You can wash. I wish we had a doctor...”

  “I OK.” She smiled. “You hug me.”

  He pulled open the top drawers. “Makeup.” He hoped that in her world, makeup didn’t consist of multicolored stripes all over the face. “Makeup.” He pointed at the picture of his mother on her dressing table below the mirror. It was one of her and his father dressed for some formal function, obviously in love. Had that always been there?

  “I’m going to go get dressed. Take your time. I’ll be back.”

  Jeremy ran from the room, driven out by photos that didn’t show reality the way he remembered it, dried blood on a lovely leg, and the sight of two breasts that he wanted to touch more than anything he could imagine.

  30

  “Da?” Rupert stood under the trees trying to get his father to take him seriously.

  “Yeah, Ru,” Sam replied. They watched Jeremy and the hooved girl enter the house.

  “Talk in th’ vil, Da.”

  “Always talk.”

  “Talk about ‘em.” He nodded toward the mansion.

  “Always talk about ‘em, Ru. Shud we knock ‘em and take it all? Shud we torch it? Always talk.”

  “New talk, Da.”

  “Whut? Tell.”

  “Sayin’ suthin baahuhd comin’, Da.”

  “Always sayin’ thet.”

  “Sayin’ big things comin’ ou’ th’ dirt. Big machines. Snake men shoutin’ o’er it. Wavin’ snakes in the holler. Sayin’ th’ end comin’ a’ last. Git ready, or smoke’n’hell.”

  “Always say thet.”

  “Yeah, but the machines, Da. They’s real.”

  “Any see ‘em? Big things? Any see ‘em close?”

  “Yeah, Da. One half-day yon, hard walk, over by Jamayuh. Go faster wi’ uh horse. Th’ runner from Jamayuh say lots more big things, lots more out there come up.” He waved his arm to indicate the entire west. “Lots more, Da. Runners ‘n’ snake men say it, they get signs. They know. Been goin’ on—” He held up his hands, fingers spread, and opened and closed them twice, indicating twenty days.

  Sam scowled. He’d known about the big machines since they heaved from the earth. He’d ridden over one night shortly after the one at Jamayuh came up and inspected the crater, making a noisy stop at the honky-tonk to cover his late visit. He didn’t know what the huge concrete bowl was, nor could he explain the pointed thing inside it—just that both were bad. He marked their shapes in his mind. They had letters and numbers all over, but he couldn’t read or write to take them down, nor did he have any way to contact Jeremy.

  He’d said nothing to the village about what he’d seen, knowing the panic it would cause. That very morning it had come to him with a shudder: something bad would come from the machines the next day. He knew it clear and true the way he knew the weather would change. He kept that to himself, too.

  Rupert waited silently, letting his father consider what he had said. He chewed his lip, trying to think of the best way to introduce his second topic.

  “Yore chewin’ like ye meant to eat yerself. Whut mo’, Ru?”

  “Sunthin’ mo’, Da. Oldsters say a hant is in the woo’s. Childrin see ‘im.”

  “A hant in the woods? Always sayin’ a hant. Whut hant?”

  “Come w’em.” He tossed his head in the direction of the mansion. “Is a terr’ble thing. Teeth so big.” He indicated two feet with his hands. “Mor’un that. Covers th’ woods, watchin’. Mos’ly, th’ hant is watchin’ her with the hoofs. Is a dawg, a snoopy dawg, w’ lotsa hair. People are scared. Think she bring th’ hant.”

  Sam thought on this. The last part was pure nonsense. Someone always saw a haunt somewhere. A hairy, ferocious dog in the forest and guarding that little girl was a new one. Some of the stories of haunts scared him, but he mostly didn’t believe in them. A hairy dog haunt?

  “Any those growed up an’ not on the punk weed see the hairy dawg?”

  “Nah, Da. Kids and the ol’ stick man tell.”

  Sam knew that old bag of bones was so bunged up on the punk weed, he couldn’t tell a haunt from his ass. He barked, “F’gitabou’it, Ru. Don’t tell me hog shit like that.”

  But the machines? After his first visit, Sam hadn’t gone back to Jamayuh. He’d lost himself in his “cover,” spending days and nights dallying and drinking. Had he been so gone in the hooch that he hadn’t done his job? Horror ran through him. He’d heard the stories of more machines coming to life and rising up out of the ground since the first one poked clear of the dirt. But except for the one in Jamayuh, they were always in the distance.

  Snake men and runners half jiggered on weed brought the news of the faraway things. The runners had drunk so much bad hooch, they saw boogies on every tree. The machines were a new source of terror, but the snake men were always saying some nonsense or other was going to kill them.

  He knew the snake men were in an uproar, waving their snakes until the creatures hung limp, waving the Book, saying it was all in there. The end of the world. They made Sam want to puke. No one could read. How did they know what the Book said?

  But the machine coming up out of the earth in Jamayuh, just two long hills over? What was wrong with him? He should have gone back again and again to see if the thing had changed. And he’d forgotten about Rupert’s skills. Rupert couldn’t read, but he could copy.

  “Ru, run to Jamayuh on ma horse. Take Oned, th’ fast one. Run there ‘n’ back. Take a paper an’ pen an’ draw all ye see on th’ bugger. Draw ‘er clear. You show me, an’ no’ un’ else, what y’ copy. Do ‘er fast, Ru. May be somethin’ to this.”

  After his son had left, Sam thought about what was going on in the village and about the current visit to the mansion. Jeremy came out often, always with Arthur driv
ing him, and usually with the old Afroman, too.

  Jeremy was a smart little fellow. He made sure they knew he could shoot them out of the water, and so could the old man and Arthur. That was what kept them from jumping them when they were at the mansion and sacking the place when they were not. That, and the fact that the little bugger had electrified it so that, if anyone touched it, they’d not touch anything else again.

  Sam smiled. Smart little bugger. He’d let Jeremy live in the village, if it came to that.

  He’d never come before with so many people. Now he had a couple of jolly boys, the Afro’s wife, and the girl.

  Sam shivered when he thought of her with the hooves. He’d held her hands and felt himself flow through her. He knew her better than he knew his wives and children, and she knew him like that as well. No one, headman or villager or anyone else, was like her. Pure as a bee’s wing humming over a flower. She was all good inside, and here to do something, which concerned Jeremy directly, but which might concern all of them. He loved her before he touched her hands. Now he’d do anything to protect her. He might have to.

  She had hooves. Thank the fathers that they weren’t split, like a cow’s or a goat’s. The snake men would be all over, saying she’s a witch. The village would rise and he wouldn’t be able to stop them. They’d torture and kill her as soon as darkness arrived.

  But she had regular hooves, like a horse. He could hold them down over those. Sure, every man and woman in the village knew about her by now, after she had pranced all over the lawn. Everyone knew that Jeremy was here with more people than usual. They knew something was up.

  He stood tall and stretched out his arms to their fullest, making sure every man jack spying on him could see them. His arms spanned almost seven feet. His chest was as big as the barrel by the well. He stood as tall as the door to the meeting room. He could outfight and outshoot any man in the Hamptons. Even so, he’d had to brawl to keep on top. He had killed as many people as the years in his life, all when Mrs. Egerton wasn’t there. He was a sweet lamb when she was home, but, the rest of the time, he held the village down any way he needed to.