Angels!

by Various

  Which was why Mary Sue asked me to help with a surprise birthday party for Bobby—she said she thought it would do us all some good to have regular people over at the house. I was hesitant at first, but she kept at it until I agreed to help.

  My part in the plan was to take Bobby over to the county seat—to file some tax papers, ostensibly—and stall him while we were there. We weren't supposed to get home until eight o'clock. I called over to Jameson's Garage in Long City ahead of time and let them know what was going on, so when the car wouldn't start from the distributor cap being jimmied, they wouldn't give me away. They timed it just right, holding back from fixing the car until seven-thirty. None of them could tell me how the shovel and the pickax got in the back seat; they acted like it was somebody else's joke.

  I raced home. After the first five minutes at eighty miles an hour, Bobby stopped asking me why. He just buckled the seat belts and wedged himself in the corner against the door and the seat, one arm over the top of the front seat, the other braced against the dash.

  We first heard the sirens when we passed the Evans city limits. I screeched the car to a stop outside the circle of fire trucks, and it was plain to see the firemen were fighting a losing battle against the burning house. Our burning house.

  Bobby tried to run inside, but that wasn't what held my attention. Rather, it was the bank of ambulances parked along the drive, one or two of them pulling away as we pulled up. There were burnt and charred bodies being loaded up and down the line, and moans filling the air above the roar of the fire and spitting of the hoses. I began opening the back doors of the ambulances nearest me, reeling in the sweet stench of cooked flesh that boiled out every time. They were all alive.

  I found her in the fifth car. Mama had been burned beyond recognition, except for a single, lidless green eye that turned toward me.

  I slammed the door shut, screaming, stumbling away. A pair of attendants carrying a squirming body on a litter ran past me. The world began to spin, and I could feel the heat from the fire reach for me, even as I heard the sound of the explosion.

  I knew what I had to do. I grabbed the pickax and the shovel and ran for Evans Cemetery, as fast as I could, the moon lighting my way as I rushed across the open fields, trying to leave behind me the sounds of the fire, the smell of burning people.

  I found the wheelbarrow where I left it, rolled it to the first spot, measured out a rectangle with my two-by-fours, and started digging. I wept until I couldn't see through my swollen eyelids, cursed and screamed until I was hoarse, swung the pickax at the defenseless earth with a vengeance until I was barely able to lift it, and the moon glared down at me like Mama's eye, lighting everything I did. When I finished the grave, I sat for a minute at the bottom, panting.

  It was still night.

  I picked up my boards and laid out the dimensions of the next grave. It went so much slower than the first, and now I began to regret killing Mr. Beauchamps, not out of guilt, but because I could have used his help.

  The digging became painful; even in the moonlight I could see the bruises and cuts on my hands. My feet hurt. My back ached from the strain. I thought of Mr. Beauchamps digging graves even after he reached ninety, going slow and steady, and that gave me hope to go on.

  I finally finished the second grave. I was barely able to crawl out. As I lay there, exhausted, I suddenly realized I had been listening to music.

  It took me a minute to recognize the tune: Chopin's Nocturne, played on the silvery, tinkling tones of Aunt Fannie's music box.

  And then I realized it was still night, and I was still looking at a scene illuminated by moonlight. I rolled over.

  He was sitting on the shoulder of the old stone angel, dressed in a white tuxedo instead of his blue and white striped overalls, and his engineer's hat was replaced by a white silk top hat. "Hello, Timothy," he said. The music box sat in his lap, its lid open.

  "Hello, Mr. Beauchamps," I croaked back.

  "Save your strength," he said, pushing off from his perch and slowly floating to the ground. "You've got a lot of work ahead of you tonight."

  "The moon—"

  "Never you mind about the moon! I'm doing my part, and you do yours—there are lots of graves to dig before morning gets here. You can rest a little before you get started on the next one, though."

  So I rested to Chopin. And dug to Mozart, Beethoven, and Brahms. Grave after grave, until the pain, the remorse, the revulsion drained away; and there was nothing left but the sound of the shovel, the shadows dancing with the moonlight that poured down from the sky, the crisp, brittle notes of the music box, and the gentle encouragement of Mr. Beauchamps. The sun came up as I finished digging the twenty-seventh grave.

  There is no one left to get close to anymore. Except for Mr. Beauchamps. In addition to bringing me lunch when I'm working, he always comes by on special occasions—the anniversary of our meeting, my birthday, his birthday, the day I passed his gravedigging total of 743—and that was well over a decade ago.

  I am ninety-six years old now, and have buried 915 people—my brother, my sister-in-law, my cousin, my nieces and nephews, the sheriff, the doctor, the black folk who lived down in the Quarters, the white folk who used to work for the Evans family business; people I never knew, or met, or even heard of. As I dug every one of their graves, I wondered who they all were, where they came from, and I was glad to give them their deaths, to help them step into the next Kingdom. But I am tired. I have been tired since the night I dug twenty-seven graves.

  When there's a nice day and I don't have to go digging, I put flowers on Mama's grave, or on Mr. Beauchamps's. He was the first black man ever to be buried in Evans Cemetery, even if no one else knows about it.

  And I keep hoping the next grave I dig will be my own.

  All Vows

  by

  Esther M. Friesner

  Esther M. Friesner's first sale was to Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine in 1982; she's subsequently become a regular contributor, as well as selling frequently to The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Amazing, Pulphouse, and elsewhere. Since 1982 she's also become one of the most prolific of modern fantasists, with thirteen novels in print, and has established herself as one of the funniest writers to enter the field in some while. Her many novels include Mustapha and His Wise Dog, Elf Defense, Druid's Blood, Sphinxes Wild, Here Be Demons, Demon Blues, Hooray for Hellywood, Broadway Banshee, Ragnarok and Roll, and The Water King's Daughter. She's reported to be at work on her first hard science fiction novel. She lives with her family in Madison, Connecticut.

  In the poignant story that follows, a sharp change of pace from her usual funny stuff and a finalist for the Nebula Award last year, she offers us a haunting and powerful look at the hardships that sometimes must be faced if you want to live up to your promises, no matter what obstacles may be in the way . . .

  I'm cold. I wish it'd stop raining. Granny Teeth never comes when it rains, and I like her, even if Sammy don't.

  "What you want any of gook ghost-lady to come hanging 'round bothering us?" he asks. Then he smiles at me. I think maybe he likes her, too. Some. Even if the only reason why he likes her's 'cause she keeps me quiet. That's important, keeping quiet, for a kid.

  When we're warm, when we're places out of the rain, that's when she comes. Other people don't see her, and Sammy . . . I dunno if he sees her or if he just says he does, for me. Times Sammy gets enough money together to buy the two of us a couple of hamburgers at McDonald's, that's funny, then. We go in, see, and Granny Teeth, she comes in after. Sammy says what we want and puts down the money, all crinkly and dirty like it gets. Times we go in, ain't hardly nobody there 'cept us and the people behind the counter. They act like they're half asleep most times, seeing nothing, almost. Sometimes Sammy's gotta shout and shout to get our order heard, and even then . . .

  While the girl's got her back to us—getting our burgers, I guess—Sammy talks to me. He don't say boo to Granny Teeth, though. Could be he don'
t see her; could be it's a game. I dunno. Sammy, he plays games with me. Anyway, this game he turns away from the counter and Granny Teeth shuffles around him real careful, then she just floats up over the counter and down behind it. Ghosts can do that. Ain't no place ghosts can't go. Sammy, he don't look, but I see what she does. She grabs us a bag, stuffs it full of burgers, fries, two chocolate shakes, what we wanted, shoves it over the counter at us and takes our money real fast. "Have a nice day!" she says, and her teeth flash gray and gold.

  One time I looked back. She swapped our money for her own. I know, even if I never seen her do it. I saw the girl back of the counter pick up what should've been Sammy's money, only all it was was a bunch of brown, dry, dead leaves. Granny Teeth was just standing there, watching the girl, looking all upset. Maybe 'cause the girl's gawping at them leaves, I dunno. Sammy says gooks got fifteen thousand different ways you can insult 'em, and something mean to do back at you for every one of them insults. I hope the girl didn't get in no trouble with Granny Teeth, insulting her dead leaf money. I guess when you're a ghost, money don't matter. I wish Uncle John knew that.

  I wish Sammy'd buy me a Happy Meal sometime. I never had one of them. But I don't like asking Sammy for more than he gives me straight out, on account of he'd give me what I asked for and go without himself. So I don't ask. Already he give me more than Uncle John ever did, and I never give him even my last name.

  I give that to Granny Teeth, though. I give her my name; hers, too. Sammy tells me, "Corey, thing about these gooks is, see, that they got some names no way a kid like you could pronounce. What are you—six?—seven?"

  I won't tell. You tell one thing, you start telling all of 'em. Anything you say maybe gets back to someone else. Maybe the police, and then I know what that means: They'd take me back.

  I'm not going back. I'm going to Washington, D.C., with Sammy, and Granny Teeth, and after we get there and see what Sammy says he's got to see, then I'll try to get him to let me stay with him forever.

  If he says no, I'll run away again. I can. I got to. If you can't go back, you got to run away.

  It's safe to tell Granny Teeth, though, seeing as how she's a ghost. I talk to her; Sammy don't: You got to name what you talk

  to, else it's not real. She has these gold teeth, see? Two gold teeth right where a vampire's got fangs, only she ain't no vampire. I call her Granny Teeth, and she smiles.

  It's raining now. Seems sometimes like it's been raining forever, the black over me, and the wet, and the cold. We found us a place to sleep 'long by an old road that used to be a pretty important

  highway. Used to be, people'd stop here. Lotta things used to be. Sammy, he's got us a fire burning in this old oil drum was a trash

  barrel, but there ain't nowheres near anything like a solid roof over our heads; just only trees. Picnic tables, too; most too bust up to lie under so it'd do any good, though.

  Sammy looks up into the rain. He got brown hair color of the dirt back home and green eyes pale as a peeled twig. He smiles up to heaven and his teeth run shining with the falling water.

  "This it, Lord?" He's laughing when he talks, so easy with his god. "This the thanks a man earns from you for trying to keep a

  promise?" He taps his wrist like he's got a watch there. He ain't got a wristwatch since I know him, since that night I come on him out of the trees and there he was, like he's waiting for me.

  "You can't tell me You don't know what day it is, Lord," he says. "And that means You know what day's coming. When I heard that last blast, I got on the road right away, but ten days isn't

  all that much when you're going so far on foot. Now listen: I don't have all that much money; I never did. Anybody wants to tell you

  any lies about how us Jews got all the money in the world, you send them around to have a word with Sammy Nachman. I'll set

  'em straight, You bet. IfI had the bread, I'd be sitting in some nice, warm Amtrak train, drinking a cold beer. But it's all on foot, all the way, and the kid—" He looks at me and I don't know what to do with the good feeling it gives me "—the kid can't march as fast as me. So whaddaya say, Lord? You do Your part, I'll do mine. Ease up on the rain, okay? Save it for spring."

  I look up at the same spot in the sky I see Sammy do. Nothing but clouds, nothing but rain. I never knowed the Jews to pray like he does, out loud, talking so anyone can understand. I hope his god don't mind English. I thought it was against the rules or something for a praying Jew to talk like that to his god. We need Sammy's god to listen to him now. I'd ask mine, only Jesus don't listen to all the lies a dumbass little kid makes up to tell. Jesus hates liars; he burns 'em in Hell. Anybody knows that. I didn't need Uncle John to tell me something I knew. I don't take off Jesus no more; just only Sammy.

  Granny Teeth got her a god? A ghost-god? I wonder. She comes back, I'll ask.

  Sammy asked real good. The rain stopped that night, while we lay wrapped up in our old green blankets on the ground by the picnic tables. I brushed the hair out of my eyes, first up. It's pretty cold, and the little bit of grass I see's got frost. Sammy says he could always sleep through anything, even in 'Nam. Home, I got used to waking the minute I hear any noise. Nothing sneaks up on you that way. It's safer.

  So I wake now; and the first thing I see is Granny Teeth's feet next to my face. She's sitting on one of them bust-up tables. Ghosts don't mind splinters or the cold. Her toes are curled up, brown and round like a row of acorns. She goes barefoot—what's a ghost got to worry over about where she steps, anyhow?—and her toenails are thick and yellow and gray.

  "'Morning, Granny Teeth," I say. I'm glad she's back.

  "Good morning, Corey." I like how she bows her head to me—not much, only a little. It makes me feel grown up and worth-something. "Does it go well with you and this man?" she asks.

  "Could be better." I smile to let her know I'm joking. Ghosts, they're monster kin. It don't do to get 'em mad. I remember how Granny Teeth looked the time I told her just a bit about Uncle John and how it was. I thought her eyes'd take fire, burn me right up then and there.

  "Better? How? You are hungry?" She's wearing an old brown robe, loose, but she's got a cracked blue plastic pockabook hanging off her neck. It snicks open and she roots through it. "You need money, you and Sammy?"

  Money? From Granny Teeth? Ghost money. Dead leaves. She scrabbles in that old pockabook of hers, I can hear 'em rustling. I don't laugh, because of what I said about ghosts getting mad. I don't laugh, but I know how it makes me feel full of bubbles inside, holding in the laughter. It feels good, holding in laughter, knowing laughter's all that's in there to hold.

  "We be okay, Granny Teeth," I tell her. I know how to talk respectful. I got taught that much, didn't I? Hard taught. "You keep your money." Your dried-up old dead leaf ghost money. "Thanks anyhow."

  I smile, 'cause it just tickles so to think I'm please-and-thanking this of gook-lady ghost for offering us them leaves she totes 'round and swaps for the real dollars we plunk down every time Sammy and me buy food. I smile big—can't help but—and that feels good, too. More right-feeling things are coming into my life these days. I'm some surprised I recognize them after this long.

  Granny Teeth clicks that cracked blue pockabook shut; her lips, too. She don't smile. Her whole face folds in at the mouth, all the wrinkles running like fishnets, like roads crisscrossing good brown country earth. "Sammy is a good man," she says, "but he does not know."

  "Know what?" I ask. She shakes her head.

  "You do not know either, Corey. You are too young to know."

  "'Bout what? The war? I know all 'bout that," I say, proud. "Soldiers an' bombs an' fire-fights an' the jungle—bugs big as cats, rats big as dogs, I know it. Sammy told me."

  Granny Teeth sighs. "Sammy is a good man," she says again. "But he can never teach you what he refuses to see for himself. He can not tell you what he will not let himself know." And she sits so still it's like I could reach out and scoop a piece of stillness off her,
hold it in my hand. Then, any time the hollering started up, and the hitting, I could just uncup my hands, let the silence and the stillness fly high, fly free, soar up to Heaven and drip down over me, wrap me safe in the blanket of the rain.

  Sudden I 'magine that was Ito come close, lean in, put up my arms to her long, skinny ones like I used to do with my daddy and lay my head against the hard bones bottoming her neck, could be I'd smell the earth smell. New-turned earth, wet with the deep-running water of melted snow. Spring earth, gulping down the seed, pushing up the flowers.

  My daddy once give me a little red plastic shovel, let me plant yellow tufty flowers by the big tree out behind the house come spring. After he went and let that tractor roll over on him, stupid like he done, and Uncle John come, I didn't get no more time to do more'n smell the springtime earth. No red plastic shovel any more. No yellow tufty flowers.

  What'm I doing? I was only dreaming 'bout doing that, putting my arms 'round Granny Teeth, and here I go, catch myself doing it for real. I yelp loud and push back from her, squirming out of her arms, shaking bad. Oh Jesus, touch a ghost like that, it's cold. Cold! Her robe's like fuzzy brown worms all over—I felt them, I did. Worms that crawl in your skull, eat out your eyeballs when you die. Oh Jesus, I didn't mean what I said before 'bout you. Jesus, You gotta help me now, don't got no one else but You, like my daddy always did used to say. You don't burn up liars when they're only little children, You couldn't do something half so heartless, no, and anyway, no matter what Uncle John says, don't believe him, they was his lies, all! Jesus Lord, I'm scared, and Sammy's sleeping, and maybe his god won't pay me no mind 'cause I'm no Jew. Oh Jesus, cold!

  "Corey!" Granny Teeth stares at me. I see by her eyes how sharp I hurt her, shouting like that, shoving her away. Lord, it wasn't my fault, I swear. One minute I'm just thinking 'bout how nice it'd be, smelling home earth, next I'm in her arms. . . .