by John Farris
Presently Jackson rushed out of the house with his own luggage. He was clean and presentable again, but the feverish look in his eyes was, if anything, more intense.
"Oh, yes, the key, I'm sorry—here, I'll unlock it for you."
The trunk lid popped up. Jackson gestured for Nhora's case to go in first. Hackaliah was about to oblige, but as he swung the case up he saw the gleam of Boss's saber and hesitated.
"Go on, go on, didn't I tell you we were in a hurry?"
"Dr. Holley, where you be in case we needs you?"
"I don't know yet. I'll call. Don't worry. Everything's under control." He piled his own luggage in on top of Nhora's, slammed the trunk lid down.
"What about—?"
"Champ? You needn't worry there, either: plenty of liquids and bed rest, I'll—I'll see him soon. Tell him that."
He went quickly around to the front and got in, drove off leaving Hackaliah standing in the rain.
At first the Stephen Mulooney had burned slowly, very slowly, but as the candle-fed flames ate into the dry, termite-riddled hull and beams it very nearly exploded, consuming most of the velvet-shrouded body of Early Boy Hodges. Not even the hard rain falling could put out the conflagration. Eventually the old wreck burned to the waterline.
The roof of the peristyle failed to catch fire; Tyrone lay where he had fallen, gaining ripeness, untouched by cleansing flame and ash.
Even before dawn, and despite the rain, the rats had begun to visit.
In the Boss-room, Hackaliah said, "Don't like to wake you when you's sleepin' so good."
"She's slipped through our fingers?"
"I just didn't know how to stop him."
"Gone which way?"
"I don't know, suh." He waited, sipping hot coffee, frying to stay alert, knowing there would be no more sleep, for any of them, until it was finally over.
"Hackaliah, I think we better call the sheriff."
"Yes, Boss," Hackaliah said.
The windows of the tourist court room had lace curtains, half-drawn shades. Through the windows Nhora could see a slice of blue sky, a baseball diamond, boys at play. She had lain awake for nearly five minutes, trying to decide if it was morning or afternoon, too deliciously relaxed to turn on her other side and look at the clock which she heard ticking on a bedside table. She couldn't remember when she'd eaten last, but she felt no hunger pangs. Of course she wouldn't turn down a hot cup of coffee if it was brought through the door this very minute—
Nhora smiled to herself and took a deep breath, then suspended her own breathing to better attune herself to Jackson's sleeping rhythms, slight sibilance of escaping air through his lips, the short, taut intake as if he was skirting the edge of a threatening dream. His distress bothered her, intruded on her own very nearly perfect mood, the best sleep she'd had in ages, no morning blues and dreadful unrealized sadness, overhanging terrors.
Should she awaken him? She put a hand lightly on his exposed cheek then withdrew it, frowning: He was very cold. Looking closer she saw that his lips had a bluish tinge. Perhaps his temperature always fell drastically when he slept. It was the first full night she'd spent in bed with him, she had no way of knowing.
Nhora wanted to snuggle close and warm Jackson with her own body, with all the love she felt for him. But he seemed to breathe more easily, the dream averted, and she decided it would be better to let him go on sleeping. She yawned and sat up, looking at the clock. Ten past eleven. Definitely time for coffee, if she could find a place nearby. She had no very clear idea of where they were, or even what day it was. Her memory went back hazily as far as yesterday, then not at all. Things had been very bad at Dasharoons, he had come along, they had fallen in love, it was all she needed or cared to know. She might go back someday, but it really didn't matter.
On the night table there was a used syringe, and Nhora picked it up curiously, remembering what he had told her. It was protection against infection, some sort of thing that was or might go wrong with her unless she had her medicine. He was the doctor. She did what he asked, willingly, unquestioningly. Because she never wanted it to end, this feeling of peace, and freedom, the quiet joy.
She got out of bed and went to the bathroom, pleased to discover that they had made love, a little sad because she didn't remember, as usual. Now she was beginning to feel hungry, really ravenous for pancakes, eggs, sausage. A quick shower, and, on her way.
As Nhora waited for the water to turn from cold to warm she ran her hands over her legs and decided she'd better shave. What sort of razor did her man use? She looked into his shave kit. Straight razor. Oh-oh, she wasn't too skilled with those, better let it go until she could buy a safety razor of her own. She continued to poke through the kit, curious about all the personal details, the preferences he exhibited in his choice of toothpaste, lotions—
Aid what was this?
A funny-looking small jar with a cork stopper. The jar fired clay with decorations, porcelain beading. It rattled dryly when she shook it. She pried up the cork and caught a whiff of something faintly decayed. She shook the contents into the palm of her hand.
Some small colored feathers, bits of snakeskin, a tiny bell, claws and animal teeth, and two quarter-size pieces of blood-soaked bone. At least that's what she thought they were. A powerful impulse seized her; she lifted the lid of the toilet and was on the verge of dumping it all, flushing the toilet quickly. What on earth was he keeping it for?
But that was Jackson's business, after all. Maybe there was a medical purpose. She carefully replaced everything in the jar and corked it, then stepped into her shower.
Nhora started to sing, as she always did, but today her mind wandered, and she couldn't seem to remember the words to any of the half dozen songs she began.
Oh, well . . .
In the Boss-room he put on the white Palm Beach suit that was still warm from the pressing iron, and added a string tie. He'd lost a lot of weight and the suit hung on him, but he wouldn't consider wearing anything else. White suit and white shoes and the white Panama hat with the black band . . . he caught sight of Hackaliah in the mirror, and turned.
"How do I look?"
Hackaliah forced a smile. "You looks just fine to me, Boss."
"Far to go?"
"About a hundred miles."
"Been a long time since you drove me anywhere, Hackaliah," he said sternly. "You sure you're up to it?"
"I can still drive, Boss."
"Then we better had get going. Don't you think?"
Jackson knew it was a very hot day, in the nineties, he could tell by the waves of heat visible in the distance as he lay in the bed looking out the windows. But he was in the throes of a deathlike cold, so cold and sluggish he could barely sit up. In a week or two his heart would surely fail, perhaps while he was experiencing the raptures of sexual conjugation.
He had taken every precaution. He kept her mildly sedated, so that in the midst of an orgasm she wouldn't accidentally scratch or bite him. The Ai-da Wédo posed no threat as long as the fetish remained in his possession.
Her very kiss was slowly poisoning him. Yet he couldn't stop wanting her, needing her.
"Nhora?"
His vision was so bad that the pictures on the wall opposite the bed were blurred. His medical bag was on the floor. He reached for it and nearly tumbled out of bed. He was a long time searching for the digitalis he needed, and a clean syringe.
"Nhora," he whimpered. "Where are you?"
He located the vein at his elbow and put the needle in. Stared at the clock while injecting himself. Nearly two in the afternoon. Where was she, how long had she been gone, didn't she know he wanted her with him every minute?
Jackson lay back, exhausted, the glass syringe shattering on the tile floor as his hand fell nervelessly off the bed.
But in just a little while he would have the strength he needed to rise, and dress, and go out to find her. Bring her back to the shadowy room. Embrace her. Make love.
Die a l
ittle more.
It was a lovely, lazy old town, somewhere in Louisiana, Nhora thought. At least there were a lot of Louisiana plates on the cars parked around the square. Spanish moss was thick in the courthouse oaks. She'd spent a lot of time, following a leisurely breakfast, just exploring, not minding the heat. There were brick sidewalks and fine antebellum mansions with full flowering gardens. Scent of honeysuckle and mimosa everywhere. She would never grow tired of living here. They probably needed a doctor. A town couldn't have too many good doctors.
Church bells. She turned a corner near the main part of town. Narrow white church with a high steeple and a spacious lawn. Cars pulling up, horses and carriages, Negro attendants in formal cutaways. A bride in billowing yards of gown, clutch of giggling bridesmaids. They posed for cameras before going in a side door of the church. Nhora was charmed. She drifted closer. What a marvelous thing to actually be married to him, she thought. But that would come. She mingled with the arriving guests on the wide walk up to the church, smiling, nodding.
So many guests. They wouldn't mind one more.
A long time since she had been to a wedding.
The Packard touring car sat by the curb a block from the church, engine softly idling. Hackaliah mopped his streaming brow, head shaking tiredly. He watched Nhora disappear into the church.
"What now, Boss?"
"You know where to go."
Jackson walked unsteadily into the Courthouse Café and leaned against the counter, his lips numb, cold as ether.
"Good afternoon, sir."
"I'm looking for my wife."
"Sir, are you ill?"
"What the hell makes you say that?" Jackson snarled.
In the street behind him, a Packard touring car went slowly by.
Hackallah put the spare key in the trunk lock and raised the lid of the muddy Chevrolet coupé. He reached in and brought out the saber. There was a speck of rust on the bright blade, high up near the hilt. He whisked it away with his handkerchief and a little spit. Turned, and handed it over.
The saber went into its scabbard. They got back into the touring car and drove toward the sound of church bells.
Nhora came out of the church into the bright sun, one of the last to leave because she had been enjoying the tranquility, the gorgeous flowers on the altar. The steps were crowded with wedding guests. The bridal party was lining up on the lawn for photographers. Nhora smiled. The bride couldn't have been more than eighteen, but she was happy, really happy. And Nhora was happy for her.
Hackaliah stopped the Packard touring car behind the church. He turned off the motor. He watched two boys pedaling by on bicycles, tossing a softball one-handedly back and forth, and thought of a young man going berserk on a church altar, the flashing sword. His hands relaxed on the wheel, he bowed his head.
The back door opened, closed. Slow footsteps moving away. Hackaliah didn't look up.
The church bell was tolling again.
Jackson, footsore, palpitating, leaned against an iron fence a block from the church and felt unable to drag himself further. Pretty dresses dotting the green lawn. A tall groom, a petite bride. Milling guests, garden party chatter. Outrageous hats in confectionery colors, parasols in older hands.
A man in a white suit ludicrously too big for him, Panama hat awry on his close-cropped head. Rounding the corner to the front of the church. Something metal in his hands, catching the sun. He stopped short, looking up. Seeing Nhora. Jackson wondered why he hadn't noticed her before, standing so tall in the crowd of ladies on the steps. The boss man in the boss suit had seen her right away. . . .
Jackson started to run, just as the saber came out of its scabbard. Nhora was already walking down the steps, hesitantly, toward the boss man. Heads turned inquiringly, as if attracted by her beauty, or by the suddenness of the sword . . .
Then screams. Terrible, chilling screams.
Nhora sat down hard on the steps, a puzzled look in her eyes as she studied the mass of dripping red on the white pillar next to her. She looked down at her splattered dress and at the arm turned the wrong way in her lap. His shadow fell over her again, and she looked up, catching just a glimpse of the sharp saber point. She tasted rather than felt it enter, though the impact knocked her head back almost against the next step.
His hat had fallen off. He stood there shy and barren-looking in the sun, wincing, mouth twisted in a flimsy, half-apologetic way, sword erect, hands braced on his thigh. He was stiff as a statue, but unbalanced, so the first pair of hands that reached for him tipped him easily, he went rolling down the steps still clutching the saber, rolled face-up and staring into the sun, prone but at attention, not moving a muscle.
Nhora saw Jackson coming and thought to smile, but didn't, and thought to get up, but couldn't; her lap was heavy with lopped arm, there was a lethal congestion in her throat and rising now thickly to her mouth. So she waited for him, wishing he would hurry, seeing him dimmer the closer he came, until at last when he knelt in horror beside her she could barely make him out at all.
Her hand rose and touched his and she tightened her fingers insistently, urging him to come along, but then, shaken by doubt, by the sorrow that had come along to spoil her perfect day, she realized it wasn't fair. And so she released him, reluctantly, withdrawing, seeing faintly the inconsolable look that crossed his face
She closed her eyes, unaware that Jackson had snatched her hand back, pried open the clenching fingers, set her nails against his cheek. And then, with all his strength, Jackson drew the nails deeply into his flesh.
