Grimm Memorials

by R. Patrick Gates

  "Don't worry about him," her father said in a mellow, reassuring voice, enriched by the strong hint of an Italian accent. He nodded in the direction Steve had gone. "Worry about yourself. Take care of yourself; take care of the baby. You don't need him. He and his lover can take care of the other children. You take care of yourself and the baby." His words were thick and soothing like warm honey poured down a sore throat. She drank them in greedily; it was just what she wanted to hear.

  Her father leaned close and placed his left hand caressingly on her swollen belly. "Nothing must hurt this child," he said. "Don't let him (a jerk of the head indicated Steve) put his thing (he made the word sound diseased) in you or he'll hurt the baby." His gnarled hand was lightly drawing patterns on her stomach.

  For a moment, as if from far away, Diane thought she heard a voice chanting in a strange rhythmic language, then the fetus in her kicked hard at the cold hand. He withdrew it, but kept smiling.

  "Promise me," he said, running an iciclelike finger down her cheek, "that you won't let him endanger the baby. Promise me," he insisted again so demandingly that she felt compelled to answer.

  "I do," she said, losing herself in his eyes. "I promise."

  CHAPTER 9

  Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee

  Sunlight glowed like a flurry of solar flares in the windows of the cars in the mall parking lot. Eleanor pulled the hearse into the lot and found a spot as close to the mall entrance as she could. She rolled up the windows and locked the doors before getting out. Dressed in her usual black garb from head to toe, and standing next to the sinister hearse, she looked like the Angel of Death.

  Though there were people walking by, no one noticed Eleanor; the Machine continued to cast reassuring images into their minds, and nothing could be traced to her. One person might think she looked like a short woman with a cane, leaning on an old Buick; another would see her as a young man in a business suit standing next to a sports car. She and the hearse remained unseen as they truly appeared.

  The mall wasn't crowded, which was fine with Eleanor. She didn't want a lot of people around; the more people the more interference and the more energy she would have to expend keeping others from seeing her activities. Normally she wouldn't have thought twice about it-the Machine could handle it easily but her poor health had taken its toll on her powers and she didn't want to overtax them. After her last heart attack, she hadn't regained all her strength.

  Several times in the past few days she'd had bone-shaking attacks of palsy followed by periods in which she remembered nothing. The most recent episode had begun last night and had ended in the morning when Eleanor found herself lying on the kitchen floor with the last of Edmund, still wrapped in foil from the freezer, clutched in her arms. Her fingers had been raw and bleeding from deeply embedded slivers and she couldn't remember the last ten hours.

  When she had unwrapped the foil to reveal Edmund's frozen head and it spoke to her, she knew she was losing control. She was running out of time, losing her mental faculties, hallucinating, exactly as Edmund had just before his final, fatal heart attack.

  "I'm waiting for you in Hell," his severed head had said to her, and she heard him laughing in her mind now.

  Edmund's dead! she told herself in a scolding tone. His laughter rang from her head and echoed across the parking lot, mocking her. "That's your guilty conscience," she whispered, "not his ghost" But she went quickly into the mall before she heard any more laughter.

  If it wasn't for her physical deterioration, she would be doing fine. The Machine was holding up well under the onslaught of her failing body and continued to weave an intricate web to catch her prey. It had led her to the restaurant downtown when she'd been on her way to the mall. She knew then, as the Machine always let her know, it was time to plant some seeds. Things were going according to plan; she just hoped the plan didn't outlive her. Halloween, the Festival of Samhain and the Harvest of Dead Souls was still over a month away. With the help of the Machine, a little tequila, and her nitroglycerin pills, she'd make it.

  She pushed through the heavy glass doors and passed under a wide arch, Welcome to Pioneer Mall written on it in seashells embedded in stucco. The sign forewarned of the tackiness found in the rest of the mall. It was a long Vshaped building with the main entrance at the joint of the V. The left side of the V was done in the style of an old Western town, complete with a horse trough that was a drinking fountain, a stage coach that was really a popcorn stand, and metal tumbleweed sculptures that looked like they were made out of rusty wire clothes hangers placed here and there throughout the length of the mall. In the point of the V, where Eleanor now stood, was a large fountain that flowed over a wooden trellis to create a small waterfall that in turn filled a wishing pool, the bottom of which was covered with algae-green pennies and assorted coins.

  The right side of the V was done in a New Orleans French Quarter style with balconies over the stores, an outdoor cafe, and a life-size plastic replica of a Dixieland band that was wired for sound and played "St. John's Infirmary" over and over again.

  Eleanor scanned both lengths of the mall from a small wooden platform that overlooked the wishing pool. From what she could see on the Western town side, pickings were slim. The youngest child she could see was a boy who looked to be at least twelve, probably older. As he came closer, a telltale spot of acne on his chin told Eleanor that no matter what age he was, he was too old for her purposes.

  She turned and scanned the other end of the mall. No children in sight. Eleanor frowned and her shoulders hunched as if a great weight were settling on them. In the past, when Edmund was still alive, the mall had always been a good place to snatch a child if they were desperate. They'd only used it twice Edmund was careful about abducting children too close to Grimm Memorials-but it had come in handy when they couldn't get the young ones they needed for their monthly rituals through their usual black market connections, or hadn't the time to travel far enough to abduct one without arousing suspicions locally. Today, the Machine had told her that she would find what she needed at the mall, and the Machine was rarely wrong.

  Eleanor looked at several middle-aged women strolling among the stores and had to admit that prospects didn't look good. She was starting to wonder whether her physical problems were affecting the Machine after all when a hot tingling flash ran through her body and she heard small voices in her head. Stepping out from behind the life-size Dixieland band was a mother with two children, twin boys dressed alike in jeans and blue sweaters, by her side.

  "Michael, leave it alone. Mark, get over here" The mother spoke with the tired exasperated tone that mothers of twin boys, or hyperactive children, always seem to have. The mother sank wearily onto a wrought-iron and wooden bench in front of the Dixieland band. By her feet, she placed two large gray plastic bags with the ZAYRE logo on them in red letters.

  The boys paid no attention to their mother. The one she'd called Mark wandered away and climbed on another nearby bench to inspect the contents of a wire trash barrel next to it. The other one, Michael, was busy kicking the plastic shin of the black banjo player as mournful horns belted out "St. John's Infirmary," for the two-hundredth time that day.

  Though she reprimanded her children constantly, the woman's voice was not harsh, nor was her demeanor one of anger; she saved anger for when the boys pushed their mischief beyond the point of tolerance. If they weren't destroying something, or trying to kill each other, she reprimanded them only mildly. Otherwise she would have been run ragged and screamed herself hoarse, or gone right into the nut house, very soon after they had entered the terrible twos. They were four now, but still full of hell.

  "Michael!" Now her voice was raised a pitch and contained a tone of ire. Michael had chipped the paint on the leg of the banjo player. "Get over here right now."

  The boy stopped kicking the statue. He knew that tone of voice from his mother meant that a swat across the fanny was soon to follow if he didn't listen. Frowning, he sauntered ove
r to his mother and climbed on the bench next to her. He stood up and hung his arms and head over the back as though he were in stocks. "Mom, I'm hungry," he whined, keeping an eye on his brother who, as yet, had found nothing interesting in the trash.

  "We'll go home soon," she said from rote. It was her standard answer.

  The boy started to whine, "But I'm hungr-" and stopped in mid-sentence. He stared at something behind them. "Mommy, look," Michael said, pointing.

  She didn't bother to look up. She figured (in fact, would have bet on it) that Michael was pointing at something Mark was doing. "Mark, knock it off," she said, using the I-meanbusiness tone of voice.

  " 'S not Mark, Mommy," Michael said.

  Her first thought was one of relief that something, anything, had caught their attention and arrested their hyperactivity long enough that she might have a few quiet moments. Usually, nothing but MTV could hold their attention longer than a few seconds. When they continued to be quiet, she became curious as to what they could have found so fascinating.

  She looked up. Michael was standing on the bench, smiling goofily, and jiggling his left leg the way he always did when he was excited about something. She half turned to look at Mark on the other bench, but he had given up his perusal of the trash barrel, leaving it for some other fortunate kid to plunder, and had climbed down. He was smiling and staring at something behind her, also.

  This must be good, she thought. This I gotta see. She turned and had to clamp a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing outright.

  "I know who you are," Mark said to the rotund twins standing near the tables of the sidewalk cafe a few feet away. "You're Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum. You're twins like us"'

  "We are not," said the one on the left. He was dressed in an ill-fitting blue suit with short pants that were too small for him and wearing a blue cap with a stubby visor in front.

  "We are too," the one on the right responded. He was dressed identically to his brother.

  "Who is who?" Mark asked, delighted to be inquiring of someone else what people were always asking Michael and him. His brother was standing beside him now, all smiles and awe. When Mark asked his question, Michael just nodded his head and continued gazing goofily.

  "I'm Tweedle-dum and he's Tweedle-dee," the one on the right explained.

  "I am not. I'm Tweedle-dum and he's Tweedle-dee," the twin on the left argued.

  "You are not"

  "I am too"

  "Are not"

  "Am too"

  Mark and Michael looked at each other and giggled. Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee were arguing just like they always did. Mark stepped forward and, mimicking his mother, cried, "Why are you boys fighting?" Michael found this extremely funny and began laughing hysterically.

  Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee stopped fighting and stared at Mark, at each other, then at Mark again. "Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee resolved to have a battle," the left twin said, slapping his brother on the back of the head and then stepping forward. "For Tweedle-dum said Tweedle-dee had spoiled his nice new rattle." Here he indicated his brother, who held up a large candy-striped rattle with a crack and a hole in it.

  The loud sound of flapping wings made Mark and Michael turn at the same time. A huge crow, as large as a ten-speed bicycle, flew low over their heads, causing them to duck. Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee jumped into each other's arms

  "Just then flew by a monstrous crow," the right twin said in a frightened voice, "as big as a tar barrel, which frightened both the heroes so, they quite forgot their quarrel."

  The crow landed a few feet behind the comical twins. In fear, they ran forward away from it and over to Mark and Michael, who were delighted to be closer to them. They jumped up and down, scrutinizing the twins who were exact replicas of the picture in Alice in Wonderland, a book their mother often read to them.

  "I wasn't scared," one of them said to Mark.

  "You were too," the other one accused.

  "Did I look scared?" the first asked of them both.

  They looked at each other, giggled, and nodded their heads yes.

  "I told you so. I told you so," the other cried gleefully

  "You were scared, too"

  "Was not"

  "Was too"

  "Was not"

  "Was he scared, too?" the one near Mark asked them. Mark and Michael looked at the other brother, Michael still giggling uncontrollably, and nodded their heads in unison.

  "I was not!"

  "Nyah, nyah, were too, were too"

  The fat, funny twins began slapping at each other again, eyes closed, hands flailing wildly. Mark and Michael watched with happy fascination. Michael, who was a natural daydreamer, was in a state of ecstasy. Mark, who was more pragmatic, never believed the porcine duo were really Tweedledum and Tweedle-dee. He figured they were just guys dressed up like them, like at Christmas they had Santa Claus at the mall, and at Easter when they had the Easter Bunny. Even though he didn't believe it, he still thought it was neat, espe cially the big crow, which had looked so real, but could no longer be seen anywhere.

  The fight ended when both of them punched each other in the nose at the same time. They looked stunned for a moment, then burst into tears, their voices whining like ambulance sirens. The sound hurt Mark's and Michael's ears. They ran forward and tried to comfort the bawling twins. After a few moments, they were successful in quieting them.

  "I want my mommy," the one standing next to Michael pouted.

  "Me, too," his brother echoed, looking hopefully at Mark.

  "Will you take us to our mommy?" they both asked at the same time.

  Michael readily agreed. He believed completely in the existence of these fairy-tale characters and was happy to go anywhere with them. Mark figured they had a display on the other side of the mall, like Santa's Village at Christmas or the Bunny Trail at Easter. He didn't mind going along because free candy usually was handed out at these displays. He just hoped it wasn't those gross lime green lollipops he always got at the doctor's office.

  Mark and Michael took the hands of Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee and started walking away. Mark turned back a second and shouted, "We'll be right back, Mom."

  "Okay, boys. Be good," she answered from the bench.

  Ten feet away from Michael and Mark's mother, near an array of wooden tables with colorful striped umbrellas in the middle of them, meant to simulate a French sidewalk cafe, a tall, silver-haired woman stood in a fullflowing, sequin-dappled ball gown. In her hair, which was the color of spun sterling and was piled high atop her head, was pinned a diamondstudded tiara that sprayed rainbows of light like faded watercolors on the walls, tables, and floor around her. The gown was a beautiful shade of aquamarine and made of crinoline and silk. What made the twins' mother laugh was that in her hand, the woman held a wand that dripped with sparkling dust, and on her back, sprouting up behind her head, were a tremendous pair of fairy wings.

  No wonder the boys were so fascinated, she thought. The wings looked so real. And when she looked at the dust falling from the wand, she could swear that she could see images wavering like pictures of magical possibilities. A trick of the light, she told herself, but she was feeling strange, like the one time in college she had tried mescaline. She felt exhilarated, but out of breath, and mentally intoxicated, a sensation that made her think that she could do anything and all things were possible. It was a good feeling. She hadn't felt that way in a long time at least four years.

  Michael got off the bench next to her and ran to his brother's side. She could see that they were both very excited. She smiled and wondered what the occasion was for the mall to be putting on a display like this, which was usually reserved for holidays or sales promotions. Then she remembered seeing that the video store in the mall was advertising a sale on Disney's Cinderella. That explained the fairy godmother outfit.

  She was going to get off the bench to bring the twins to meet the woman when the latter's wings suddenly began to buzz. The woman seemed to grow t
aller, rising up as she left her feet and glided over to the bench, hovering an inch or two off the floor.

  The twins' mother was dumbfounded. She looked over the woman's head to see if there were any wires, but could detect none. As the woman landed next to the bench, she could feel cool air from the beating of the woman's wings.

  "Hello, Linda," the woman said in a musical voice.

  "How do you know my name?" Linda asked. The woman was exquisitely beautiful in the classic tradition of such high-cheekboned icy beauties as Grace Kelly and Ursula Andress. Her eyes were large and such a deep blue that they reflected everything. Linda felt in awe to be so close to her.

  "I'm your fairy godmother," the woman answered, her words rich in tone as if many people were speaking at once.

  "My ... what?" Linda had to laugh.

  `I know a lot about you," the woman said, smiling.

  This must be a gag, Linda thought to herself. Someone I know has put her up to this, or else I'm on "Candid Camera" She turned to look around and see if any of her friends were nearby watching, getting a kick out of this, or if there were a hidden camera with Allen Funt waiting to pounce, but she suddenly found that she could not look away from the strange, beautiful woman.

  The woman's wings stopped beating and the cool breeze from them died. "How ... how do you do that?" Linda asked, craning her neck to see the wings. There were still no visible wires, nor anything else that might reveal a trick.

  "It's very easy, really. I just think about it and it's done. It's a lot like riding a bicycle, it becomes second nature after a while," the woman explained amiably.

  "Oh my God," Linda exclaimed as the woman turned to allow Linda to see the wings more clearly. They appeared to be absolutely real. The back of the gown was cut low, revealing the wings sprouting from small fleshy bumps on the woman's shoulder blades. The wings themselves were like framed and veiny sheets of mica-smoked glass. "They're real!"