Then, with a titanic effort through tremendous pain, his Pappaw whispered to him, “See him.”
George felt like he was coming out of a deep sleep. He looked at Professor Foxfire.
And saw.
Gone was the happy and dashing ringmaster appearance. His fine clothes seemed to age in seconds, until they were threadbare and stained, in some places covered with moss or mold. His top hat lost its shine, and now it was decorated with a hat band of children’s finger bones. His hair grew long and grayish white from under the hat, and it moved in the breeze, undulating like thousands of tiny silver snakes.
Gone was any trace of jolly Cab Calloway. At first glance, Professor Foxfire looked to be African American until one realized his color was more an absence of light than a product of any human heritage. His skin was as dark and lifeless as ink. There could be no blood running in him; this was a creature who was filled with spider venom and misery. His eyes were yellow, flecked with gold, and they were preternaturally reflective and bright, like those of a predator. When he smiled, George could see a mouthful of teeth, all yellowed and jagged and very, very sharp.
But it was his tattoos that were the most remarkable.
There were two large salamanders tattooed on his face, one on each cheek. One seemed to be crawling upward, its snout ending even with the man’s eye, the tail winding down to a spiral on his chin. The other was crawling downward, the tail curving up and forming a spiral on his forehead, its snout ending beside his mouth. These salamanders were colored deep blue with purple markings and had yellow eyes.
Then Professor Foxfire made a small flourish with his hands, the fingers of which now seemed much too long, and George gasped, for the salamanders were changing color. They were turning yellow, then orange, like hot coals in a fireplace, and they glowed. They moved around Professor Foxfire’s face, their yellow eyes blazing like tiny lanterns. They leaped off his face simultaneously, and each landed on a shoulder. They faced George and hissed.
“Do you like my pets, Georgie?” Professor Foxfire asked, and George shook his head.
And then Professor Foxfire was reaching through the small gap in the window, his hand like long and grasping twigs. One nail touched George’s right hand. Then Patch barked furiously and George fell backward off the toy box.
The door to George’s room burst open, and his grandmother ran in, followed closely by his mother. George’s mother scooped him up and retreated toward the door while Grandmama grabbed up the sage and cedar from the vase, which crashed to the floor and shattered. The old woman rushed toward the window.
“Verre-Mort, Jack! Git, you damn Rougarou! Allez vite!” Grandmama yelled, and she whipped Professor Foxfire’s grasping fingers with the sage and cedar.
Professor Foxfire hissed and withdrew his fingers, which had begun to smoke. His eyes blazed bright yellow and it seemed he might climb through the window.
Then Grandmama sang a few words in a strange but beautiful tongue.
Professor Foxfire shrank back as if the words were hurting. He spit at Grandmama and transformed into a ball of greenish-yellow light. This flew off, through the yard and over the wall, then disappeared into the swamp.
Grandmama went to her daughter, who rocked George. George did not stir.
“I think he hit his head, Mama! He needs a doctor!”
Grandmama felt George’s head and looked at the back of his right hand. There, in the center, was a small grayish patch the size of a pea. As they watched, it shrank in size.
“Hush now, ma petit, he be fine. But we call your aunt Coraline.”
The very next day, a real estate agent from Tamlinburg arrived to find the big house in Green Water empty. He put a sign out front and drove off.
Chapter 1
LAKE NISQUALLY, WASHINGTON, PRESENT DAY
Jimmy Kalmaku stepped out onto the porch of the little house on 152nd Street in Nisqually. He took a sip of coffee from an old mug and looked out, a slight breeze playing with his long gray hair, held in place with a leather tie.
He was a tall man, six-foot-two, and with enough extra weight to be called “robust.” A member of the Tlingit Nation of Alaska, he was seventy-three years old, with sharp eyes a deep brown that were almost black.
It was a pleasant summer day, and the scent of pine and the nearby lake were familiar and comforting. He sat down with a soft grunt in one of the Adirondack chairs, happy to see Lake Nisqually even if the view was obscured by the houses across the street and telephone and power lines.
Eddie Milch rode by on his bicycle and waved, and Jimmy waved back. Jimmy rubbed his knees, something he did often now, most times without knowing it.
Jimmy took another sip of coffee, one of those fancy blends George had picked up in Old Town. Jimmy usually bought what was on sale, but a cute barista had convinced George that this blend was very popular with the college crowd and was more organic than the well-known brands.
It did taste pretty good.
A small car stopped in front of the house, and Jimmy could hear some current pop song and several young women chattering and laughing.
George got out of the backseat, and one of the girls handed him a canvas grocery bag. George bowed and doffed his hat. The girls said, “Goodbye, George!” in unison, giving his name a flirtatious emphasis.
George waved as they drove off. The driver honked once and sped off.
He turned toward the house and grinned at Jimmy. George was also seventy-three, African American, and a good four inches shorter than Jimmy. He had a slight build, with a pencil-thin mustache and skin the color of pecan wood. George’s eyes were lighter than Jimmy’s, and they usually bore a glint of mischief. He always dressed up for his trips to the market, today wearing a pair of black pants and a houndstooth sport coat, white shirt, and a narrow black tie with red accents. His hat was charcoal gray with a small red feather.
George never went out without a hat and owned several, all with small feathers of yellow, red, or blue. A brown herringbone tweed hat that bore both a feather in yellow and another in red was his “lucky hat.” That was reserved for first dates and other occasions of merit.
Jimmy, by contrast, was dressed in his usual way: a pair of jeans, scuffed boots, and a tee shirt. Today it was a Pink Floyd “Dark Side of the Moon” tee shirt his granddaughter Molly had sent him on his birthday. The look was what George usually described as “trailer-park hippie meets aged biker.”
George walked up the steps, as graceful as Astaire.
This move had been good for him.
“Learn anything, Hiawatha?” he asked.
“I already know how to go to the market, Rochester,” Jimmy replied.
“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it,” George said, handing him a bag as Jimmy stood.
“Those girls look young enough to be your granddaughters,” Jimmy said.
“Daughters, maybe,” George said. “And I was a proper gentleman.”
“Uh-huh,” Jimmy said, following him into the house.
“Look,” said George, setting the bag on a polished wood counter, “I can’t help it if I’m charming, it’s in my nature. If a pretty girl wants to flash a little leg or maybe give me a peek down her blouse, am I supposed to deny her that chance to do good?”
Jimmy laughed. “I wonder, George Watters, if you ever listen to yourself and are as flabbergasted as I am.”
“Pocahontas, I may not be a shaman, but I do have a way with the ladies. Hell, if it were up to you, everyone on this street would think we’re gay.”
“I don’t care if they do think I’m gay,” Jimmy said. “What would hurt is having them think I would settle down with an old coot Lothario like you.”
“Watch who you’re calling old, Gramps. I’m not the one who was there for Custer’s Last Stand. And the term is not ‘Lothario,’ it’s ‘Don Juan.’ ”
Jimmy laughed, then his knee seized up on him and he almost collapsed, grabbing the counter for support.
&nb
sp; George rushed to him, putting a hand on his shoulder and the other under his forearm.
“You okay, Cochise?”
“Yeah…just need to sit down.”
George led him over to one of the chairs at the kitchen table.
Jimmy eased down. “Remind me to teach you some Tlingit notables. If you’re going to call me names, you might as well have the right nation.”
“What fun would that be?” George asked. He waited a minute as Jimmy rubbed the knee that had gone out on him. “You want some water, Jimmy?”
“How about a beer?” Jimmy asked.
“Why not? We’ll make it a regular party,” said George.
“So long as you don’t invite your girlfriends. I don’t think I can dance just yet.”
George got them each a bottle of Molson and joined Jimmy at the table.
Jimmy looked at the groceries.
“Nothing perishable, don’t worry about it,” George said.
Jimmy nodded and took a swig of the beer, his other hand massaging his knee.
“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” George asked, his forehead wrinkled with worry.
“Naw,” Jimmy said, but he was lying. He thought the milder climate of Seattle would be easier on his injuries from a year ago, but the pain was getting worse, and sometimes it wasn’t even the cold that brought it on.
“You should see a doctor,” George said. He wanted to say that Jimmy might want to use his cane again, the one he had left behind at Golden Summer, but knew his friend was sensitive about it.
“I’m fine,” Jimmy said, trying not to gasp as a sharp pain lanced through his knee. “Besides, I’ll be in Boston by Thursday and Thomas can look at it. And by the way, when was the last time you went to the doctor?”
“I’m in the pink, for your information. And besides, what would I need to see a doctor for, being too pretty?”
Jimmy shook his head as George cackled. An idea occurred to George and he pointed at Jimmy.
“Maybe you can get Anne Marie to look at your knee.”
Anne Marie was Miss Belva, the young RN from Golden Summer Rest Home, their previous residence. Every Sunday she brought their friend Fred Deutschendorf for dinner and several hands of poker.
“I don’t need to bother her with a simple case of arthritis,” Jimmy said. “I’ll wait for Thomas.”
“Now I know you’re old,” George said with mock sadness. “Here you have a perfect excuse for a pretty girl to put her hands on you, and you’re going to pass.” George shook his head.
The ache in Jimmy’s leg began to lessen and he stood.
“Let’s get those groceries put away, Don Juan.”
—
Fred Deutschendorf arrived with Anne Marie at precisely 6 P.M. Jimmy was a bit shaken by how much more frail Fred looked than a week ago. He was sure George noticed, too, but neither of them said anything as they greeted him.
Fred, now walking with a cane, peered at them with eyes still keen. “Jesus, boys, do I look that bad?”
They protested, but he waved them off. “I learned to read people when you two were still pooping your diapers. I know I may look frail, but I can still take you two birds.”
Fred had had a mild stroke about six months ago. Although he was still quite lucid and able to do most things, he could no longer drive and needed a cane to get around.
“Besides,” he said, motioning to Anne Marie, “I’ve got the prettiest date here.”
Anne Marie hugged Jimmy and George, giving each of them a kiss on the cheek. Jimmy could see she had some news. George wished he were forty years younger. The smell of her perfume lingered on his collar and he wondered how a scent could be so perfectly matched to a beautiful young woman in her prime.
Jimmy barbecued hamburgers and George made baked beans, and Anne Marie brought German potato salad prepared from her father’s family recipe. They ate out on the back deck, which looked out over a spacious yard of green lawn and some pine trees. While they ate, a squirrel chattered at the Steller’s Jays who gorged themselves at the bird feeder Jimmy had hung in one of the pines.
Fred raised his glass, his grip just a shade unsteady. “Wonderful meal, my friends, and wonderful company.”
They toasted him as well, though Jimmy was saddened to see Fred becoming truly old. He was one of those larger-than-life personalities that seemed eternal.
“This place is a far cry from Golden Summer,” Fred said.
“Beg all you want, you’re not moving in,” George said, only half kidding.
“Oh, I don’t want to be away from Golden Summer,” Fred admitted. “True, I miss fleecing you young pups every week, but my life there is satisfying. And…” he said, winking at George, “no stand of trees or pretty lake is as sweet a vision as Anne Marie Belva.”
George felt a little twinge of jealousy at that but raised his glass with Jimmy and Fred to toast their former night nurse.
Anne Marie blushed. “I suppose I should tell you all my news,” she said, happy but sad as well.
She’s leaving, Jimmy thought. He suddenly had a mental image of her lying dead on a beach, and he pushed the thought away.
“I’ve met someone,” she began, and Jimmy could see the words break George’s heart just a little. George had always had a crush on her, an infatuation across too great a gulf of years to be acted upon.
“His name is Dylan Malu and he’s in the Forestry Service.”
“You love him,” Jimmy stated, seeing the way her face had lit up.
Anne Marie smiled and blushed.
“Now tell them the bad news,” said Fred sourly.
Anne Marie hesitated.
George said nothing, but Jimmy smiled kindly and said, “Come on.”
Anne Marie said, “He’s been given a chance to help restore some of the natural forests on Oahu, which is wonderful because he’s from Hawaii. He’s asked me to go with him.” Her dark eyes shone with excitement. “There’s a lot of opportunities for nurses and caregivers over there; I already have an offer from a senior home near Waikiki.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Jimmy said, smiling.
“Lot of rain in Hawaii,” George said.
Jimmy looked at him and George shrugged.
“Lot of rain here, too,” Jimmy said. “But I heard the Hawaiians call theirs ‘liquid sunshine.’ ”
Anne Marie smiled at that.
“Guess I’ll shoot the elephant in the room,” Fred groused. “What about the people here who need you?”
“Oh, I will miss all of you terribly,” she began.
“It’s not like we can’t get along,” Jimmy volunteered. George gave him a dirty look. “Of course,” Jimmy added, “we’ll miss you, too.”
“And my folks live in Bellingham, so I’ll be back for holidays and such to visit.”
There was a silence as the four of them evaluated and ruminated over the coming changes.
“I thought Fred was going to fleece us,” Jimmy finally said. “Who wants to help me clear?”
—
They played until ten, by which time Fred was clearly getting tired. He had lost two hands, and Jimmy wondered if it was his advancing years or the news of Anne Marie Belva’s moving away.
He decided it was probably a bit of both.
After they left, Jimmy settled into his favorite chair to watch the evening news, something he and George did every night. Their cat, Jabbo, whom George had named after jazz great Jabbo Smith, hopped in his lap and curled up.
Jabbo was black except for a star-shaped blaze on his forehead. He was one of the kittens the Slater family cat Midge had had, and Bobby had insisted he go to Jimmy and George.
“You’re happy company is gone, aren’t you?” Jimmy asked, scratching Jabbo’s ear.
Jabbo just purred, his eyes closed.
George sat down in the other recliner while the credits rolled on some late-night drama.
“You seem awfully anxious to have Anne Marie leave Seattle,” George said
finally.
“She’s a young woman in her prime,” Jimmy said. “She should see new things, have adventures.”
“This from the man who didn’t leave his hometown until he was a grandfather.”
“You did enough moving and adventuring for both of us,” Jimmy said.
The news anchor came on, bringing updates on a Capitol Hill scandal and terrorists in the Middle East.
“I want to buy a car,” said George.
“Why on Earth do you need a car? Everything we need is within walking distance.”
“Everything you need,” George replied. “I got places to go and things to see.”
“This isn’t about those college girls, is it?” Jimmy teased, knowing it wasn’t.
“It so happens they invited me to a dance,” George said. “But no, I just want the freedom. And what happens if your scrawny chicken legs give out and you can’t get your bony ass off the linoleum?”
“Then I guess we’d call an ambulance,” Jimmy said.
George made a rude sound. “Ambulance! I can drive better than those amateurs.”
“Imagine me living with Mario Andretti all this time and not knowing it,” Jimmy said, grinning.
“Tonto, I would leave him in the dust before you could even say, ‘Hi yo, Silver!’ ”
“Scout,” Jimmy said.
“What?”
“Tonto’s horse was named Scout. Silver was the Lone Ranger’s horse.”
“I…that’s not the point,” George said.
Jimmy looked at him. George muted the television as a senator swore he had never broken his marriage vows.
“Before I met you,” George said, “I thought I was going to die in Golden Summer. My kids never got in touch, and I didn’t really have any friends. Then, you…you became my best friend. And then we saved the Slaters from that godawful thing and they bought us this house. They got us out of Golden Summer, for which I will be eternally grateful.”
Both Jimmy and George had tried to turn down the house the Slaters had bought them out of gratitude. Finally, all had agreed the house would go to young Bobby Slater after Jimmy and George had passed on.
Deadlight Jack Page 2
