“You are incapable of taking responsibility. You are incapable of love, even for your own daughter.”
“Like you love me! Like you ever loved me!” Charlotte pitched her voice up to tantrum tones. “You never loved me! Never!”
“I will see to Holly until you return, Charlotte.” Delilah spoke calmly, refusing to indulge in the fury she felt; it would do no good.
“You always hated me! How dare you say I’m a bad mother!”
“I didn’t say that, Charlotte. You did. Good bye.” And she hung up, without even slamming down the phone.
“Missy Delilah?” Frieda hovered in the archway holding a silver tray. “Your tea?”
“Yes, thank you, Frieda. Just leave it here.”
Frieda set the tray on the desk and nodded at a second tea cup. “Miss Vera has arrived.”
“Send her in, please.”
Vera Kotzwinkle appeared momentarily and came to sit beside Delilah at the desk.
“Tea?” Delilah nodded at the steaming cup.
“Don’t mind if I do. What are we doing today?” Vera paused, tilting her head. Her auburn hair rode her shoulders in a That Girl flip. “What’s wrong?”
“Charlotte.”
“What now?” Vera had been with Delilah long enough to have witnessed plenty of Charlotte’s antics.
Delilah told her. In detail.
“There’s something wrong with Charlotte, if you don’t mind my saying.”
“You know I don’t mind.”
“I don’t think she’d recognize love if it bit her on the butt. In fact, I don’t think she’s capable of it.”
“I’ve wondered about that myself.” Delilah rubbed a knot in her neck. “I don’t know how I went so wrong.”
Vera shook her head. “Don’t even think that. You were a great mother.”
“I was always working.”
“Sure, you worked a lot, but you always made time for Charlotte. Always.” Vera laid her hand over Delilah’s. “I saw how hard you tried, but Charlotte was … difficult.”
Delilah nodded. “She was a chip off her father.”
“I’m glad he was out of the picture before we met.”
“So am I, dear. So am I. Clifton was a real piece of work. Just like Charlotte.” She shook her head. “The man left me for a starlet who was little more than a child. Now I’m afraid Charlotte has left me with her child. Vera, I don’t want her child.”
“She’s your granddaughter.”
“That may be, but I can’t keep her.”
“First of all,” Vera said in her all-business voice, “Charlotte said she’d be back in a few days. That doesn’t sound like she’s dumping the girl on your doorstep to me. She’s got a job, she’ll be back for her daughter.”
Delilah couldn’t think of a thing to say; the image of Aunt Beatrice loomed large in her mind.
“Second of all,” Vera continued, “to quote the bard, ‘Methinks you doth protest too much.’”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do.”
Delilah sighed impatiently. “Enough of this nonsense. Let’s get to work. They’ve invited me to some sort of awards ceremony celebrating fifty years of Universal monsters. I’d like you to decline for me with as much grace as possible.”
“I think you should go.”
“Nonsense. The last thing I want to be remembered for are those horror films.”
“But they’ve brought you so many fans.” Vera smiled. “You’re a scream queen whether you like it or not. And we met at Universal.”
“You’re the only thing I want to keep from that time, my dear. I prefer to remember the career I had before I passed the age of thirty-five. Violet Morne, Crandall Street, Fording Fenway, Murder Confidential - those were films I took pride in. The Universal movies were all I could get once the dew was off the lily. They only paid the bills and I do not want to be celebrated for them.”
“Okay, but I still think you should be proud of them. Delilah, do you even look at all the mail you get from the Universal fans?”
“No, I don’t. That’s what I pay you to do.”
“Yes, boss lady.”
The playground was all that remained of an elementary school that had been rebuilt down the hill many years ago and Holly liked it despite the heat and the lack of trees and grass. There weren’t any other kids there, but there were two jungle gyms, both impressively big and tall, a lot of monkey bars - her favorite thing - and a couple of old metal merry-go-rounds that despite being creaky, traveled at breakneck speed when you got them going. There were two towering metal slides that were too hot to ride in the midday sun unless you wore long pants, several teeter-totters that would crack you in the crotch if your partner got off too fast, horizontal bars, hanging rings, and a couple of sun-bleached and cracking horses on springs.
Holly had tried out everything but the butt-burning slide and was now on a swing,
Becky sat on the one beside her, as talkative as ever. “So, my mom is going to ask Miss Delilah if you can spend the night tomorrow and then go camping with us for the weekend.”
“Huh.” Holly pumped her legs, swinging higher. She wished Meredith and Becky had invited her before seeking permission from her grandmother. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to go - camping sounded like fun - but she liked to make up her own mind about things. If Miss Delilah said yes, she pretty much had to go. She swung higher, dreading a night in Becky’s room with all those horses and Barbie dolls. But camping will make it worth it, right?
“You’re going to go too high and fly over the top!” Becky cried as Holly pumped her legs and positioned her body to attain the most lift.
“I want to!”
“You want to? My Aunt Pam did that once and broke her arm. And Mom says she got a concussion and was never right in the head after that.” Becky giggled. “She wouldn’t wear underwear anymore!”
“Really?”
“That’s what my mom said.”
“I promise I won’t stop wearing underwear if I swing over the top.”
“I can’t watch.” Becky stopped her swing and trotted over to a bleached-out spring-horse and climbed on, rocking hard and calling the horse “Snowflake.”
Holly kept swinging. Each time she reached the top she saw more of the old cross in the cemetery at the far end of the road. She’d forgotten all about it until she spotted it, but now, she wanted to go check it out.
The sun burned in the sky, started hurting her eyes and she realized it probably was well after noon by now. She squinted, watching a couple of boys lean against a jungle gym and peer out over the valley. Wondering who they were, Holly let the swing gradually glide to a stop before jumping off.
It was really hot, so she pulled off her long-sleeved shirt, wiped sweat from her forehead with it, then tied it around her waist before walking over to Becky, who was still riding the pale horse.
“Hey.”
Becky stopped rocking. “What?”
“Who are those guys on the monkey bars?”
Becky shadowed her eyes with her hand. “Um, Keith and Tommy. They’re in my class.” She grinned. “So they’ll be in yours, too, if you stay. They’re okay for boys.”
“Cool. Think they’d want to go check out that old cemetery?”
Becky frowned. “I don’t want to go there.”
“Why?”
“It’s a cemetery. Who wants to hang out in a cemetery?”
“I do.” Holly grinned. “They’re very historical and I love history. I want to see it, don’t you?”
“No. But I’ll introduce you and you can ask them. But it would be way more fun to go back to my house and play horses and Barbie. Want to? We have air conditioning and-” Becky stared at Holly. “What happened?”
“Huh?”
“Your arm.” She dismounted the spring-horse and took Holly’s arm, turning it. “How did you get those bruises?”
Crap. Holly had forgotten them. “No big deal.”
<
br /> “And they’re on both arms!” Becky’s eyes widened. “They’re fingerprints! Who grabbed you? Your mom?”
“Of course not.”
“Well somebody did!”
Holly couldn’t think of anything to say except the truth. “A ghost.”
“That’s not funny!”
Holly smiled just a little. “Sorry. I don’t know how I got them. I guess in the earthquake.”
“Do they hurt?” Becky poked one.
“No,” Holly lied as she rubbed her arm. “It’s just dirt. I think it’s coming off.”
Becky looked skeptical but stopped staring. “So, do you have a Barbie?”
“No.”
“Your mom never got you a Barbie?” Becky looked aghast.
“Oh, she did. A couple of them. I gave them to a friend last year.”
“Why? Why would you do that?”
“I just wasn’t into Barbies and my friend liked them.” In truth she’d only given one to Debby. The other one was sacrificed after Holly read about the French Revolution and how they’d beheaded Marie Antoinette. She’d built her own guillotine, dressed the blond pony-tailed Barbie in her fancy black evening gown and poured red paint on her neck and dress and held an execution. The guillotine hadn’t actually worked, but bloody Barbie/Marie on a balsa wood guillotine had looked great on her bookcase until Cherry made her throw it out. She’d also told her not to tell anyone what she’d done, and Holly figured that was good advice, especially when it came to Becky.
“How can you not like Barbies?”
“They’re okay, but they’re all about clothes and dating. I like other stuff. Outdoor stuff and reading and exploring.”
“Horses, right?”
“Sure. And monkey bars and hiking.”
“Well, we could go play with my horses. Or we could do each other’s hair. I want to go in. It’s too hot today. So, do you want to?”
“Maybe tomorrow, okay?” Holly smiled. “Could you introduce me to those guys?”
“Sure.”
Meredith looked up when Becky came rushing into the lobby of the Grand. “Hi honey, where’s Holly?”
“I think she and Keith Hala were going to the cemetery to look around.”
“Keith’s a nice boy. I’m glad she didn’t go alone.”
“There’s something wrong with Holly, Mom.”
Meredith saw real concern on her daughter’s face. “Come behind the desk and sit with me a minute.”
The girl sat, looking like she was about to burst. Meredith smiled to herself - Becky often looked that way.
“Now, tell me what’s wrong with Holly.” She pushed pale hair from her daughter’s face.
“She doesn’t like Barbies! She gave hers away!”
“That doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with her, Becky. Not all girls like dolls as much as you do.”
“But - Barbies!”
“Holly is a little old for her age.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sweetheart, I think Holly has had to act grown up for a long time.”
“Why?”
Because she has a lousy mother. “Well, her mother has to work to support them, so Holly hasn’t had a lot of time to play because she had to cook and keep their apartment clean.”
Becky nodded. “But her mom got her Barbies. She said. Why wouldn’t she like them?”
“Different people like different things. I think Holly really likes books, for instance.”
“And ghosts! I bet that’s why she wanted to go to the stupid cemetery. To see ghosts.”
“Maybe. She does like ghost stories. And history, too. There’s plenty of history in cemeteries.”
Becky nodded. “She said that, too. But mostly, she likes ghosts. She even said all those bruises on her arms were from ghosts.”
“What bruises?”
“She had big purple fingerprints on her arms. She said a ghost did it.”
“I’m sure she was just joking. Honey, what did the bruises look like?”
“Fingerprints. Just like fingerprints. Like somebody had yanked her arms. And I told her that and then she said she didn’t know how they got there and maybe they were dirt and would wash off.”
What’s going on here? Meredith felt real concern now.
“Mom? Can I have Fruit Loops for lunch?”
“No, you may not. There’s a chicken sandwich for you in the refrigerator.”
26
Keith Hala
It took almost fifteen minutes for Holly and Keith Hala, a slender nimble boy only an inch taller than Holly, to hike to the cemetery and check out the tall wooden cross. After that, they’d wandered among graves marked by mounds of rocks or rusted iron crosses and stones so weathered that they couldn’t read the names. There was a small mausoleum in the distance and they were going to explore that after they cooled off a little.
Now, sitting in the scant shade cast by a parched old cottonwood twenty feet from the wooden cross, they sucked on strips of prickly pear cactus Keith had cut for them. “Next time,” he said, “let’s bring water.”
“For sure. But this is good. How’d you know to do this?”
“Grandpa taught me.” Keith’s brown eyes sparkled. “He says the tribe we come from has always eaten it and know how to make it taste really good. Sometimes my mom cooks the fruit. It’s pretty tasty.”
“You’re a real Indian? That’s so exciting!” Holly was bursting with questions.
Keith grinned again.
“Do you live on a reservation?”
“No. My great-grandfather did when he was a kid, but he moved to Brimstone and opened an ironworks shop. It’s called Hala Metalworks and my grandfather runs it now.”
“What does he make? Like horseshoes?”
“Sometimes. He makes all sorts of stuff, and fancy fences and things. My dad worked for him until he died.”
“I’m sorry. My dad died, too.”
“Mine died in a car accident,” Keith told her. “How did yours die?”
“He was a photographer and was shooting pictures on Mt. Everest. He fell.” She paused. “If you die on Everest, you never come home, my mom said. You stay there.”
Keith nodded somberly. “I live with my mom and my grandfather down there.” He pointed toward town. “Where do you live?”
“The Brimstone Grand.” She pointed at the structure, barely visible at the other end of the road.
“Are you just visiting?”
“No, I mean I hope not. My grandmother lives there and my mom says we’re just staying with her until she gets a new job in California.” Holly leaned forward. “I hope she doesn’t get one. I want to stay here.”
Keith’s eyes widened. “Why would you want to stay here?”
Holly shrugged. “It smells good. I like it - there’s no smog - not like in Van Nuys. I have my own room and my own refrigerator and Miss Delilah is going to give me piano lessons.”
“Miss Delilah.” Keith’s eyes widened. “Is Delilah Devine your grandmother?”
Holly nodded. “She was a movie star.”
“I know, but if Miss Delilah is your grandmother, your ancestor is H.H. Barrow. My grandfather says he tried to bring the Brimstone Beast to life a long time ago!”
“What?” Holly’s belly filled with ice as the nightmare crashed back into her mind.
“The miners called it the Brimstone Beast, but it’s way older. Like really, really old and sleeps inside the earth. Your ancestor woke it up once. Grandpa was talking about it last night. He says it’s awake again.”
“What? Why does he think it’s awake?” Holly felt excited and a little worried.
“The earthquakes. He says the Brimstone Beast makes the earth shake when it wakes up or turns over in its sleep.”
Holly tried to sound casual. “Does your grandfather believe it?”
“I don’t think so. He just likes storie- Hey!” He grabbed his arm.
The rock that hit Keith tumbled toward Holly.
It was ragged and sharp, the size of a lemon. She looked up. Two older kids were approaching, one tall and lanky with carrot-colored hair and an ugly little nose. The short one had dark hair and weasel-eyes.
“Crap,” Keith muttered. “That’s Shawn and Tony.”
“Who are they?”
“Eighth graders. Bullies.”
Tony lobbed another rock, just missing Keith.
“Hey, knock it off!” Holly cried as she and Keith scrambled to their feet.
“Dirty Injun!” yelled Shawn. “Why don’t you go back to India where you belong!”
Holly stared in disbelief as the pair of bullies approached. Shawn had weird little scrunchy blue eyes and his toady kept glancing at him for direction. He wasn’t getting much.
“Your daddy died ‘cuz he was a drunk!” the tall one taunted. “A drunk Injun!”
“Yeah,” yelled the minion. “Your daddy’s a drunk! Why don’t you go back where you belong?”
Tony threw another rock, smaller, and this one hit Holly on the knee. It hurt. “Ow! Cut it out you stupid bullies!”
“You can’t pick on her!” Keith ran at them, plowing straight into the red-haired one, knocked him over, and tried to pummel him.
The dark-haired minion stared at Holly. “Slut girl wants to make out with the Indian.” He made a kissing noise. “Why don’t you make out with me, instead?”
Holly stared. She’d never, not once, been in a fight. She’d come close once or twice but always - always - stopped fights with words, not actions. Right now, she had no words. She just wanted to beat the snot out of the kid.
Keith yelped as Shawn rolled him over, sat on his chest, and began punching him.
“Slut girl!” The short one stepped closer, leering like an idiot.
Fury spilled into Holly’s blood. Her body stiffened and her vision, always clear, became even clearer, more intense, almost magnified. She stared past Tony even as he stepped in front of her to block her way.
He grabbed her arm. “Slut girl, gimme a kiss.”
“Get out of here.” The words came out low and hard, full of disinterest. She barely registered the boy’s open-mouthed stare before he turned and ran.
Brimstone Page 18
