Bury Me in Satin

by Seanan McGuire

  Bury Me in Satin

  by

  Seanan McGuire

  Buckley Township, Michigan, 1942

  "Daddy?"

  Mary Dunlavy paused in the doorway to her father's room, peering into the dark and trying to convince herself that she heard any signs of life. Breathing, a heartbeat, anything that would tell her she wasn't alone in the house with a corpse. Which was a silly schoolgirl thing for her to be worried about, considering her own situation--but her situation was hers, and she'd been adjusting to it for the past three years. Her daddy was supposed to be different. He was supposed to live forever.

  The old grandfather clock in the hall ticked over to the hour, beginning to chime. Still, there was no sound from her father's room. There hadn't been a sound in almost a week, not since the night he went to bed complaining about a pain in his chest and talking about the ticking in the walls. Mary hadn't been able to hear a thing, not then or now, but she hadn't heard the deathwatch beetles since the night before she'd died. That sort of omen was for the living. It wasn't meant for her.

  Her sense of smell wasn't as good as it had been when she was alive, but it was good enough to pick up the faint touch of decay hanging in the cool hallway air. She knew what she would find if she went into that room, and that was why, in the end, she pulled the door closed and turned away. She wasn't ready.

  He would wake up soon. He had to.

  "Have you seen Benjamin Dunlavy recently?" Alexander shrugged out of his jacket, hanging it on the coat rack. "I ran into one of his coworkers from the mill during lunch today, and he expressed some concern."

  "Why would he express concern to you?" asked Fran, looking openly bewildered. "It's not like the Dunlavys have us over for dinner on the regular. Sort of wish they would, though. Then we wouldn't be the ones doing the dishes."

  "As if you've ever washed a dish in your life," said Alexander, laughing as he leaned over and kissed his daughter-in-law on the cheek. "You are an incorrigible slob. Motherhood has done nothing to redeem you."

  "Never said it would," said Fran amiably. "Besides, I'm not on mama duty right now. Enid's got Alice out in the back. They're chasin' frickens through the tall grass. They've got a pickle jar, so there's no telling how many little hopping friends we're gonna have in here tonight."

  "Good to know," said Alexander. "As for why they thought I'd know, there's your answer. It's common knowledge that Mary babysits for Alice from time to time, and I suppose they thought that meant we might have been in touch with the family. He hasn't been to work for the past week. They're concerned."

  "Huh," said Fran. She paused before asking, more carefully, "Mary and Benjamin live alone these days, don't they?"

  "Yes, since Mary's mother passed. That would have been five years ago? Six at the most. It was a tragedy. Christine was a truly lovely woman. Never had a hard word for anyone. She used to babysit for Jonathan, back when we first moved to town." They had been foreigners then, strangers to the township and to the country. Allowing Christine to take care of Jonathan had done a great deal to convince the people of Buckley that the newcomers from the United Kingdom meant no harm.

  "I see," said Fran. "Maybe I should take Alice and some cookies or a pie or something, go over and check in on them."

  "Would you?" Alexander didn't make any effort to conceal his relief. "It's less intrusive if you happen to drop by. You could ask about Mary's availability this weekend. I know Johnny wants to go out and have a look at the bloodworm burrows before they finish coming out of hibernation, and you could go with him if Mary took Alice."

  "I'll go with him anyway, as you darn well know, but I'm still happy to go check on them. Mary's a good girl. Lots of girls drop out of high school--usually for some boy or other--and she's the only one I know who dropped out because her daddy needed her." Most families, she would have been a little bit uncomfortable about that situation. People talked, after all, even if they never quite wanted to admit what they were talking about. Benjamin Dunlavy, however, was a widower, and a hard worker who just needed someone to be home to put dinner on the table and keep the windows from turning entirely black with grime. Fran had never gotten so much as a whiff of anything improper off of him, and she doubted that she ever would.

  "Thank you," said Alexander, and kissed her cheek again. Fran grinned, and said nothing. She really didn't think that it was necessary.

  It had taken about an hour, all told, to get ready to go. First she had to change her clothes, since bloodstained trousers weren't even remotely suitable for a social visit. Then she had to raid the kitchen for cookies. Fortunately, Enid had baked a batch of peanut butter with walnuts and protective runes the night before, and Fran didn't figure anyone would miss half a dozen. Heck, that was the damage every time Johnny wandered through the kitchen after cookie night.

  Finally, she had to voyage into the tangled wilds of the field behind the house, where she followed the sound of Alice's giddy shrieks to the place where her mother-in-law--normally a calm, dignified woman--was down on her hands and knees, watching raptly as Alice chased after a small green frog with short, stubby feathers on its front legs. The fricken hopped, spreading its feathered legs in an attempt to fly. Alice lunged for it, narrowly missing as the fricken caught a fortunate gust of air and managed to glide just out of her reach.

  Alice would have pursued her amphibious quarry, but was stopped by her mother's arm being suddenly wrapped around her waist, lifting her off the ground. As she had been taught, Alice froze, sniffed the air to verify the scent of her mother's perfume, and pushed once against Fran's arm to check that it had the normal texture and heat of human flesh. Then she laughed, going from dismay to delight in the twinkling of an eye, and twisted around to fling her own arms around Fran's neck, with a gleeful cry of "Mama!"

  "Hello, jumpin' bean," said Fran genially, looking over her little girl's head to Enid, who was picking herself up from the ground. "Having fun?"

  "We caught frickens, Mama!" proclaimed Alice, pulling her mother's attention back to her. "They're in the big jar. Can I keep them always?"

  "Well, no," said Fran. "You can keep them for tonight, but tomorrow morning, we gotta put them back where they came from. Think of all the fricken mamas and daddies out there, wondering where their babies are at! They can have a sleepover without worryin' their parents overmuch, and I guess when you're a fricken parent, you get used to the idea of your babies havin' sleepovers with little girls, safe on the inside of big glass jars."

  "But for tonight?" asked Alice hopefully.

  Fran looked over her daughter's head and rolled her eyes. Enid put one dirty hand across her mouth, smothering a smile. "Yes, you can keep them for tonight," said Fran. "But right now, I need to take you inside and wash some of the muck off you so's Mary will know that you're a little girl, and not a swamp monster."

  "Mary!" cried Alice gleefully. Then she paused, leaning back in her mother's arms and giving her a mistrustful look. "Why're we seeing Mary? Don't go away, Mama, you just got here."

  "We're just going for a visit, that's all," said Fran reassuringly, unable to stop the pang of guilt that formed in her throat. True, she and Jonathan had been away for a few weeks to watch the jackalope migration, and there had been the peace conference with the gorgons in Chicago before that, but she hadn't really been away that much, had she? Thinking back over the past few months, she was mortified to realize she'd been gone for six weeks since the New Year--and since it was only March, that wasn't a good thing.

  Privately, Fran vowed to do better, to be home more, to tell Johnny that she wasn't coming the next time he got called out of town by this problem or that. Even more privately, she knew that she would never pass up a chance for adventure, especially not when Alice
had two wonderful grandparents and a beloved babysitter who might as well have been family to take care of her. She just wasn't made to say "no" when the call came. For better or for worse, that wasn't the woman she was.

  "Okay, Mama," said Alice, and squirmed to get down. Fran set her on the ground and watched as she ran off toward the house.

  "They grow up fast," said Enid, pulling Fran's attention back to her. She smiled a little, understanding and sad. "Seems like you blink and they're asking you where you keep the knives, and how much pressure it takes to open a man's throat. She'll miss you more as she gets older."

  "I know, but what am I supposed to do?" Fran shook her head. "Johnny has all these people asking him for help, and some of them have started asking me. Arturo's wife is expecting this summer. She doesn't want to have her baby surrounded by wise guys and snake people, and I'm the only person she knows to call."

  "So ask the snake people if they'd mind you bringing a little girl on a special vacation," said Enid. "You know they'd be happy to put her up, and you know Alice would love to meet some real, live gorgons like the ones she's seen in her Grandpa's books."

  Fran opened her mouth to answer, and then paused, giving Enid a narrow-eyed look. "Why're you pushing this? You've been gettin' more and more enthusiastic about us taking Alice places, even when they're not such good places for a little girl to go."

  "I only encourage you to take her places where I know you have allies and she won't be harmed," said Enid. "She's growing up, Fran. She needs to meet the people she'll be working with for the rest of her life."

  Fran paused. Then, slowly, she nodded. "You make a good point. I'll see about convincing Johnny to let her come with us this summer."

  Enid smiled. "That's all I wanted. Why are you going to visit Mary?"

  "Oh, Alex said some fellas from the mill were askin' about Benjamin Dunlavy--he missed work, or somethin' like that--and he asked me to go by, see if everything was all right. Nothing big." Fran shrugged. "He probably just has a spring cold or somethin'. I'm bringing some cookies, and Alice, of course. She could brighten a dead man's day."

  "Yes, she could," agreed Enid.

  "Back in a bit," said Fran, amiably enough, and turned to trot after her daughter. Enid stayed where she was, watching Fran walk away. She'd been expecting more of a fight on the topic of taking Alice to Chicago with them--but then, why would Fran have felt the need to argue? Fran had grown up with the carnival. She'd chosen to live that life because she loved it, and when she'd found another life that she loved just as much, she'd changed her goals to suit that new life. For her, teaching Alice to love the world that she was being raised in was only natural. And it wasn't like keeping Alice in Buckley would protect her. Heloise Tapper--may she burn in whatever Hell was intended for her ilk--had been proof enough of that.

  Johnny would resist more, Enid was sure. He was protective where his daughter was concerned, which made sense, given Daniel, and given what had happened in Gentling. He'd want to keep Alice far away from anything that could hurt her, even if those things could also help her; could be friends and allies and people who would understand the world she'd grown up in when no one else would. If there was anything Enid felt bad about, it was that. They were essentially giving Alice a Covenant upbringing, just like the one they'd given Johnny. It was the only kind of way she or Alex knew to raise a child...but a proper Covenant upbringing would have meant other children, if they'd been doing it back in England. It would have meant school with boys and girls her own age, people she could talk to, people who would understand.

  They couldn't give Alice the childhood she should have had, but they could do their very best to make sure that someday, when she grew up, she was positioned to make her way in the world without fear that no one would ever understand her.

  Enid bent, picked up the pickle jar of frickens from where it lay discarded among the weeds, and began, finally, walking toward the house. The future was a problem for tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. All she really had to do, as a grandmother and a human being, was make sure that little girl had the best childhood she could possibly have. Enid was confident that someday, when Alice looked back, she would see how much effort had been made on her behalf, and she would forgive them.

  The trouble with driving Alexander's old rattle-trap of a pickup truck around town was that everyone knew exactly where you were going and what your business was. Heads turned as Fran went rumbling past with Alice in the seat beside her, and more and more, Fran came to understand the wisdom of sending the pair of them to check on the Dunlavys. Mary sat for Alice often enough that Fran dropping by with the little girl wouldn't mean involving the whole township in her business, or her father's. Anything else, well. Buckley had its share of gossips and busybodies, and Fran didn't trust any of them as far as she could throw them. She'd defend them if she had to. She'd die for them if circumstance demanded. But they couldn't make her like them.

  Benjamin's car--only slightly newer than Alexander's truck, and in considerably poorer repair, with rust spots eating near all the way down to the frame in places--was parked in the drive when Fran pulled up in front of the house. She got out of the truck and walked around to let Alice out as well.

  "You want to pass me the cookies, bean?" she asked. Alice handed her the plate. Fran took it in one hand, and helped her daughter down with the other. "Remember, social calls always go better when you bring baked goods and a big smile, even if you have to spend the whole visit lying through your teeth."

  "How do you lie through your teeth, Mama?" asked Alice.

  Fran laughed. "Don't worry, sweetie. You live in this town long enough, I'm sure you'll get the knack."

  They walked up the narrow path to the door, Alice leading the way in her exuberance, Fran moving more slowly, taking time to consider the condition of the house itself. The paint was peeling, and while the windows were spotlessly clear, there was no disguising how damaged the shutters were, or how frayed the curtains had become. The house had been crumbling ever since Christine Dunlavy had died, leaving her teenage daughter and her heartbroken husband alone. Benjamin had thrown himself into his work, and while Fran had seen firsthand just how much effort Mary had put into maintaining the property, the girl could never have accomplished everything on her own. She simply didn't know how.

  We should have offered to help, Fran thought, feeling mildly ashamed. She'd always known that the Dunlavys were in a tight spot, but she'd never really tried to reach out, had she? Aside from the occasional friendly casserole, and hiring Mary to sit for Alice, that was--and Mary wouldn't have needed to take on babysitting work if money hadn't been so tight. Fran had always been grateful for Mary's easy availability. Now, for the first time, she found herself feeling guilty that she hadn't questioned that availability more.

  Alice bounced onto her toes when she reached the porch, stretching upward in an effort to ring the doorbell. She was still tiny enough to fall several feet short of her goal. Fran chuckled, pushing dark thoughts of failure and lack of charity aside, and rang the bell herself.

  Seconds slithered by unmarked, until Fran frowned and rang the bell again. She left her finger on the buzzer a little longer this time, until she was sure that anyone inside would have heard it. Then she stepped back, putting her free hand on Alice's shoulder, and listened for the sound of footsteps.

  It never came. Instead, the doorknob turned and the door swung open and Mary was standing there, looking pale and drawn. She was wearing her Buckley High School jacket again--she was wearing that jacket almost every time Fran saw her, even in the middle of summer and the dead of night. It was a reasonable fashion accessory for a teenage girl, but an odd choice for some of the occasions Mary wore it on. All that flicked through Fran's mind at high speed as Alice cried, "Mary!" and ducked under her mother's hands, stepping forward to meet her favorite babysitter.

  Then Alice cried out, the high, confused sound of a child who has no frame of reference for what she's e
xperiencing, and fell back against Fran's legs, shooting a betrayed look at Mary. The smell that was rolling out of the open door hit Fran a second later. It was deep and rank and terrible, the smell of something that had been dead for so long that it no longer remembered being anything else. It was a smell with teeth, and Fran took a step back, trying to get away from it.

  Mary was still standing in the doorway, still pale and sad-looking. She wasn't reacting to the smell at all. She didn't even seem to realize that it was there.

  Fran forced herself to stop moving back. She put a hand on Alice's head, trying to comfort her daughter, who was now burying her face against her mother's legs, body rigid with indignation and surprised fear. A smell like that never meant anything good, and a little girl like Alice, who had grown up in a house full of hunters and taxidermy, knew that when something smelled as dead as that, the appropriate response was to turn and run the other way.

  "Mary, sweetie, is everything all right?" The words sounded like they were made of glass, pretty and fragile and virtually meaningless. Fran almost thought she could hear them shatter as they fell. "Some of the men from the mill were asking about your daddy, and I thought, well, if he's feeling poorly, some of my mother-in-law's famous peanut butter cookies will fix him right up. She puts walnuts in the dough, that's her secret. Well, it's not much of a secret, really, anyone who takes a bite knows straight off that she's put walnuts in there. Point is, they're delicious, and they can make just about anybody feel better."

  "Everything's fine, Mrs. Healy," said Mary. Her voice was as pale and washed-away as her face. Combined with the smell that was still drifting out of the house...Fran was starting to be genuinely afraid, although she couldn't have put into words just why. Not yet. "Thank you for the cookies. I'll put them in the kitchen for when daddy wakes up. He hasn't been to work in a few days, and I guess I just forgot to call and tell them he was under the weather."