The Year's Best Science Fiction & Fantasy, 2012 Edition

by Fowler, Karen Joy

  Overhead were the fantastic shapes of the dirigibles, and the dragons that were hung on string and swam perpetually through the air above your head. There was a misty globe, too, suspended in some way that Fran could not figure, and lit by some unknown source. It stayed up near the painted ceiling for days at a time, and then sunk down behind the plastic sea according to some schedule of the summer people’s.

  “It’s amazing,” Ophelia said. “Once I went to the house of some friend of my father’s. An anesthesiologist? He had a train set down in his basement and it was crazy complicated. He would die if he saw this.”

  “Over there is a queen, I think,” Fran said. “All surrounded by her knights. And here’s another one, much smaller. I wonder who won, in the end.”

  “Maybe it’s not been fought yet,” Ophelia said. “Or maybe it’s being fought right now.”

  “Could be,” Fran said. “I wish there was a book told you everything that went on. Come on. I’ll show you the room you can sleep in.”

  They went up the stairs. BE BOLD, BE BOLD, BUT NOT TOO BOLD. The moss carpet on the second floor was already looking a little worse for wear. “Last week I spent a whole day scrubbing these boards on my hands and knees. So, of course, they need to go next thing and pile up a bunch of dirt and stuff. They won’t be the ones who have to pitch in and clean it up.”

  “I could help,” Ophelia said. “If you want.”

  “I wasn’t asking for help. But if you offer, I’ll accept. The first door is the washroom,” Fran said. “Nothing queer about the toilet. I don’t know about the bathtub, though. Never felt the need to sit in it.”

  She opened the second door.

  “Here’s where you sleep.”

  It was a gorgeous room, all done up in shades of orange and rust and gold and pink and tangerine. The walls were finished in leafy shapes and vines cut from all kinds of dresses and T-shirts and what have you. Fran’s momma had spent the better part of the year going through stores, choosing clothes for their patterns and textures and colors. Gold-leaf snakes and fishes swam through the leaf shapes. When the sun came up in the morning, Fran remembered, it was almost blinding.

  There was a crazy quilt on the bed, pink and gold. The bed itself was shaped like a swan. There was a willow chest at the foot of the bed to lay out your clothes on. The mattress was stuffed with the down of crow feathers. Fran had helped her mother shoot the crows and pluck their feathers. She thought they’d killed about a hundred.

  “I’d say wow,” Ophelia said, “but I keep saying that. Wow, wow, wow. This is a crazy room.”

  “I always thought it was like being stuck inside a bottle of orange Nehi,” Fran said. “But in a good way.”

  “Oh yeah,” Ophelia said. “I can see that.”

  There was a stack of books on the table beside the bed. Like everything else in the room, all the books had been picked out for the colors on their jackets. Fran’s momma had told her that once the room had been another set of colors. Greens and blues, maybe? Willow and peacock and midnight colors? And who had brought the bits up for the room that time? Fran’s great-grandfather or someone even farther along the family tree? Who had first begun to take care of the summer people? Her mother had doled out stories sparingly, and so Fran only had a piecemeal sort of history.

  Hard to figure out what it would please Ophelia to hear anyway, and what would trouble her. All of it seemed pleasing and troubling to Fran in equal measure after so many years.

  “The door you slipped my envelope under,” she said, finally. “You oughtn’t ever go in there.”

  Ophelia yawned. “Like Bluebeard,” she said.

  Fran said, “It’s how they come and go. Even they don’t open that door very often, I guess.” She’d peeped through the keyhole once and seen a bloody river. She’d bet if you passed through that door, you weren’t likely to return.

  “Can I ask you another stupid question?” Ophelia said. “Where are they right now?”

  “They’re here,” Fran said. “Or out in the woods chasing nightjars. I told you I don’t see them much.”

  “So how do they tell you what they need you to do?”

  “They get in my head,” Fran said. “I guess it’s kind of like being schizophrenic. Or like having a really bad itch or something that goes away when I do what they want me to.”

  “Not fun,” Ophelia said. “Maybe I don’t like your summer people as much as I thought I did.”

  Fran said, “It’s not always awful. I guess what it is, is complicated.”

  “I guess I won’t complain the next time my mom tells me I have to help her polish the silver, or do useless crap like that. Should we eat our sandwiches now, or should we save them for when we wake up in the middle of the night?” Ophelia asked. “I have this idea that seeing your heart’s desire probably makes you hungry.”

  “I can’t stay,” Fran said, surprised. She saw Ophelia’s expression and said, “Well, hell. I thought you understood. This is just for you.”

  Ophelia continued to look at her dubiously. “Is it because there’s just the one bed? I could sleep on the floor. You know, if you’re worried I might be planning to lez out on you.”

  “It isn’t that,” Fran said. “They only let a body sleep here once. Once and no more.”

  “You’re really going to leave me up here alone?” Ophelia said.

  “Yes,” Fran said. “Unless you decide you want to come back down with me. I guess I’d understand if you did.”

  “Could I come back again?” Ophelia said.

  “No.”

  Ophelia sat down on the golden quilt and smoothed it with her fingers. She chewed her lip, not meeting Fran’s eye.

  “Okay. I’ll do it.” She laughed. “How could I not do it? Right?”

  “If you’re sure,” Fran said.

  “I’m not sure, but I couldn’t stand it if you sent me away now,” Ophelia said. “When you slept here, were you afraid?”

  “A little,” Fran said. “But the bed was comfortable, and I kept the light on. I read for a while, and then I fell asleep.”

  “Did you see your heart’s desire?” Ophelia said.

  “I guess I did,” Fran offered, and then said no more.

  “Okay, then,” Ophelia said. “I guess you should go. You should go, right?”

  “I’ll come back in the morning,” Fran said. “I’ll be here afore you even wake.”

  “Thanks,” Ophelia said.

  But Fran didn’t go. She said, “Did you mean it when you said you wanted to help?”

  “Look after the house?” Ophelia said. “Yeah, absolutely. You really ought to go out to San Francisco someday. You shouldn’t have to stay here your whole life without ever having a vacation or anything. I mean, you’re not a slave, right?”

  “I don’t know what I am,” Fran said. “I guess one day I’ll have to figure that out.”

  Ophelia said, “Anyway, we can talk about it tomorrow. Over breakfast. You can tell me about the suckiest parts of the job and I’ll tell you what my heart’s desire turns out to be.”

  “Oh,” Fran said. “I almost forgot. When you wake up tomorrow, don’t be surprised if they’ve left you a gift. The summer people. It’ll be something that they think you need or want. But you don’t have to accept it. You don’t have to worry about being rude that way.”

  “Okay,” Ophelia said. “I will consider whether I really need or want my present. I won’t let false glamour deceive me.”

  “Good,” Fran said. Then she bent over Ophelia where she was sitting on the bed and kissed her on the forehead. “Sleep well, Ophelia. Good dreams.”

  Fran left the house without any interference from the summer people. She couldn’t tell if she’d expected to find any. As she came down the stairs, she said rather more fiercely than she’d meant to: “Be nice to her. Don’t play no tricks.” She looked in on the queen, who was molting again.

  She went out the front door instead of the back, which was something that
she’d always wanted to do. Nothing bad happened, and she walked down the hall feeling strangely put out. She went over everything in her head, wondering what still needed doing that she hadn’t done. Nothing, she decided. Everything was taken care of.

  Except, of course, it wasn’t. The first thing was the guitar, leaned up against the door of her house. It was a beautiful instrument. The strings, she thought, were pure silver. When she struck them, the tone was pure and sweet and reminded her uncomfortably of Ophelia’s singing voice. The keys were made of gold and shaped like owl heads, and there was mother-of-pearl inlay across the boards like a spray of roses. It was the gaudiest gewgaw they’d yet made her a gift of.

  “Well, all right,” she said. “I guess you didn’t mind what I told her.” She laughed out loud with relief.

  “Why, everwho did you tell what?” someone said.

  She picked up the guitar and held it like a weapon in front of her. “Daddy?”

  “Put that down,” the voice said. A man stepped forward out of the shadow of the rosebushes. “I’m not your damn Daddy. Although, come to think of it, I would like to know where he is.”

  “Ryan Shoemaker,” Fran said. She put the guitar down on the ground. Another man stepped forward. “And Kyle Rainey.”

  “Howdy, Fran,” said Kyle. He spat. “We were lookin’ for your pappy, like Ryan says.”

  “If he calls I’ll let him know you were up here looking for him,” Fran said. “Is that all you wanted to ask me?”

  Ryan lit up a cigarette, looked at her over the flame. “It was your daddy we wanted to ask, but I guess you could help us out instead.”

  “It don’t seem likely somehow,” Fran said. “But go on.”

  “Your daddy was meaning to drop off some of the sweet stuff the other night,” Kyle said. “Only, he started thinking about it on the drive down, and that’s never been a good idea where your daddy is concerned. He decided Jesus wanted him to pour out every last drop, and that’s what he did all the way down the mountain. If he weren’t a lucky man, some spark might have cotched while he were pouring, but I guess Jesus doesn’t want to meet him face to face just yet.”

  “And if that weren’t bad enough,” Ryan said, “when he got to the convenience, he decided that Jesus wanted him to get into the van and smash up all Andy’s liquor, too. By the time we realized what was going on, there weren’t much left besides two bottles of Kahlua and a six-pack of wine coolers.”

  “One of them smashed, too,” Kyle said. “And then he took off afore we could have a word with him.”

  “Well, I’m sorry for your troubles, but I don’t see what it has to do with me,” Fran said.

  “What it has to do is that we’ve come up with an easy payment plan. We talked about it, and the way it seems to us is that your pappy could provide us with entrée to some of the finest homes in the area.”

  “Like I said,” Fran said. “I’ll pass on the message. You’re hoping my daddy will make his restitution by becoming your accessory in breaking and entering. I’ll let him know if he calls.”

  “Or he could pay poor Andy back in kind,” Ryan said. “With some of that good stuff.”

  “He’ll have to run that by Jesus,” Fran said. “Frankly, I think it’s a better bet than the other, but you might have to wait until he and Jesus have had enough of each other.”

  “The thing is,” Ryan said, “I’m not a patient man. And what has occurred to me is that your pappy may be out of our reach at present moment, but here you are. And I’m guessing that you can get us in to a house or two. Preferably ones with quality flat screens and high-thread-count sheets. I promised Mandy I was going to help her redecorate.”

  “Or else you could point us in the direction of your daddy’s private stash,” Kyle said.

  “And if I don’t choose to do neither?” Fran asked, crossing her arms.

  “I truly hope that you know what it is you’re doing,” Kyle said. “Ryan has not been in a good mood these last few days. He bit a sheriff’s deputy on the arm last night in a bar. Which is why we weren’t up here sooner.”

  “He was pigheaded, just like you,” Ryan said. “No pun intended. But I bet you’d taste better.”

  Fran stepped back. “Fine. There’s an old house farther up the road that nobody except me and my daddy knows about. It’s ruint. Nobody lives there, and so my daddy put his still up in it. He’s got all sorts of articles stashed up there. I’ll take you up. But you can’t tell him what I done.”

  “Course not, darlin’,” Kyle said. “We don’t aim to cause a rift in the family. Just to get what we have coming.”

  And so Fran found herself climbing right back up that same road. She got her feet wet in the drain but kept as far ahead of Kyle and Ryan as she dared. She didn’t know if she felt safe with them at her back.

  When they got up to the house, Kyle whistled. “Fancy sort of ruin.”

  “Wait’ll you see what’s inside,” Fran said. She led them around to the back, then held the door open. “Sorry about the lights. The power goes off more than it stays on. My daddy usually brings up a torch. Want me to go get one?”

  “We’ve got matches,” Ryan said. “You stay right there.”

  “The still is in the room over on the right. Mind how you go. He’s got it set up in a kind of maze, with the newspapers and all.”

  “Dark as the inside of a mine at midnight,” Kyle said. He felt his way down the hall. “I think I’m at the door. Sure enough, smells like what I’m lookin’ for. Guess I’ll just follow my nose. No booby traps or nothing like that?”

  “No sir,” Fran said. “He’d have blowed himself up a long time before now if he tried that.”

  “I might as well take in the sights,” Ryan said, the lit end of his cigarette flaring. “Now that I’m getting my night vision.”

  “Yes sir,” Fran said.

  “And might there be a pisser in this heap?”

  “Third door on the left, once you go up,” Fran said. “The door sticks some.”

  She waited until he was at the top of the stairs before she slipped out the back door again. She could hear Kyle fumbling toward the center of the queen’s room. She wondered what the queen would make of Kyle. She wasn’t worried about Ophelia at all. Ophelia was an invited guest. And anyhow, the summer people didn’t let anything happen to the ones who looked after them.

  One of the summer people was sitting on the porch swing when she came out. He was whittling a stick with a sharp knife.

  “Evening,” Fran said and bobbed her head.

  The summer personage didn’t even look up at her. He was one of the ones so pretty it almost hurt to peep at him, but you couldn’t not stare, neither. That was one of the ways they cotched you, Fran figured. Just like wild animals when you shone a light at them. She finally tore her gaze away and ran down the stairs like the devil was after her. When she stopped to look back, he was still setting there, smiling and whittling that poor stick down.

  She sold the guitar when she got to New York City. What was left of her daddy’s two hundred dollars had bought her a Greyhound ticket and a couple of burgers at the bus station. The guitar got her six hundred more, and she used that to buy a ticket to Paris, where she met a Lebanese boy who was squatting in an old factory. One day she came back from her under-the-table job at a hotel and found him looking through her backpack. He had the monkey egg in his hand. He wound it up and put it down on the dirty floor to dance. They both watched until it ran down. “Très jolie,” he said.

  It was a few days after Christmas, and there was snow melting in her hair. They didn’t have heat in the squat, or even running water. She’d had a bad cough for a few days. She sat down next to her boy, and when he started to wind up the monkey egg again, she put her hand out to make him stop.

  She didn’t remember packing it. And of course, maybe she hadn’t. For all she knew, they had winter places as well as summer places. Just because she’d never been able to travel didn’t mean they didn’
t get around.

  A few days later, the Lebanese boy disappeared off, probably looking for someplace warmer. The monkey egg went with him. After that, all she had to remind herself of home was the tent that she kept folded up like a dirty handkerchief in her wallet.

  It’s been two years, and every now and again, while Fran is cleaning rooms in the pension, she closes the door and sets up the tent and gets inside. She looks out the window at the two apple trees. She tells herself that one day soon she will go home again.

  Mulberry Boys

  Margo Lanagan

  So night comes on. I make my own fire, because why would I want to sit at Phillips’s, next to that pinned-down mulberry?

  Pan-flaps, can you make pan-flaps? Phillips plopped down a bag of fine town flour and gave me a look that said, Bet you can’t. And I’m certainly too important to make them. So pan-flaps I make in his little pan, and some of them I put hot meat-slice on, and some cheese, and some jam, and that will fill us, for a bit. There’s been no time to hunt today, just as Ma said, while she packed and packed all sorts of these treats into a sack for me—to impress Phillips, perhaps, more than to show me favour, although that too. She doesn’t mind me being chosen to track and hunt with the fellow, now that I’m past the age where he can choose me for the other thing.

  We are stuck out here the night, us and our catch. If I were alone I would go back; I can feel and smell my way, if no stars and moon will show me. But once we spread this mulberry wide on the ground and fixed him, and Phillips lit his fire and started his fiddling and feeding him leaves, I knew we were to camp. I did not ask; I dislike his sneering manner of replying to me. I only waited and saw.