Lovecraft Country
Page 38
“No, probably not,” Hippolyta acknowledged. “But it doesn’t seem right to just leave her out there.”
“Maybe,” Letitia said. She glanced at the other papers on the table: brochures and application forms for the University of Chicago and two other schools, farther afield, that offered courses on astronomy. “Tell me something, though. How much of this is just you wanting another crack at that machine?”
Hippolyta smiled. “If I could have that portal here in the house, with no guards around it . . .” She paused, recalling a harsh red alien sunrise. And Scylla. “Well, I’d still need to be careful, but in that case, sure, I’d love to do some exploring. As it is, I can’t see making a habit of it. Just one more time.”
Letitia was skeptical, having heard those words on other people’s lips, but she said: “All right. I’ll talk to Mr. Winthrop, see if he’ll give me the combination.”
“Thank you,” Hippolyta said. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to George.”
“Yeah, I figured. Don’t worry.”
Hippolyta got up to pour herself more coffee. “So how’s Ruby doing?”
“If you see her, maybe you can tell me,” Letitia said.
“She hasn’t been around?”
“She was in church last Sunday, but she ran out at the end of the service before I could talk to her. I think she’s mad at me.”
“What about?”
Letitia shrugged. “She’s feeling sorry for herself, I guess. Getting rid of Mr. Braithwhite cost her another job, so it’s like she got punished for doing what had to be done.”
“She got punished, and you got the Winthrop House.”
“I told her I’d share it with her,” Letitia said. “But Ruby didn’t want that. Ruby doesn’t know what she wants, that’s the real problem . . . But that’s not my fault. Life’s just not fair sometimes, you know? It’s not fair, but what are you going to do?”
She waited in the building lobby at noon, her red hair freshly cut in a modified Amelia Earhart style. She wore stockings this time, along with a new dress and shoes bought specially for the occasion. In her purse was a new set of ID that she’d obtained, at no small expense, through a former business associate of her father’s.
“Miss Lightbridge?” she said, as the woman stepped off the elevator. “Excuse me, Miss Lightbridge?”
Joanna Lightbridge looked warily at this stranger smiling at her like an old friend. “I’m sorry, have we met? Miss . . .”
“Hyde. Hillary Hyde. And no, you don’t know me. I’m sorry to ambush you like this. I tried to make a regular appointment, but your receptionist told me I’d have to meet with one of your assistants, and while I’m sure they’re very good, it’s you I wanted to talk to.” She opened her purse and brought out a folded newspaper clipping. “I read the interview you did with the Tribune last month. It was very inspiring.”
“I certainly wouldn’t call it that,” Miss Lightbridge said, her expression souring. “I’m not sure I’d even call it an interview.”
“The reporter was very rude to you. Those questions about why you weren’t married, I thought that was inappropriate. But your answers were good, and I could tell there was more you were trying to say—maybe more that you did say, that he just didn’t write down.” A postman entered the lobby from the street, pushing a hand truck loaded with packages; the two women moved aside to make way for him and ended up standing closer together. “Miss Lightbridge, I lost my mother a little over a year ago,” she continued, “and since then I’ve been through some other changes, I won’t bore you with the details, but it’s made me realize I’m just not satisfied with the kind of work I’ve been doing. I’m not married and I’m not looking to start a family anytime soon. I know a lot about what I don’t want, but not much about what I do—and it seemed to me, reading your interview, that you’d been through something similar in your life. Now I know you’re very busy, but I was hoping you could spare me just a little time, to maybe point me in the right direction, give me a sense of how to start looking for what I’m looking for . . .”
Joanna Lightbridge was smiling now. “Miss Hyde, is it?” she said.
“Hillary, please.”
“Hillary . . . Have you eaten?”
“No, I haven’t. I’d be happy to buy you lunch.”
“That’s all right, Hillary. Lunch is on me.”
George had thought at first to go with something bulky and obvious, the kind of safe that takes a team of men to move, but Montrose pointed out that even inch-thick steel won’t stop a thief from putting a gun to your head—or your family’s heads—and demanding the combination. So George had let Montrose take one of his filing cabinets over to a machine shop and trick it out. The top two drawers still functioned normally (they contained the field reports for West Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming), but the bottom two were a false front: a hinged panel that swung open to reveal a two-and-a-half-foot-tall safe bolted to the floor.
“Is that really three hundred thousand dollars?” Horace said as he stared at the stacks of bills in the safe.
“Less than that, now,” George told him. “But still plenty to pay for your college, and Ophelia’s kids’ college too.”
“And yours,” Montrose said, looking pointedly at Atticus.
“And Mom’s,” Horace put in.
“Yeah, hers too,” said George. “And whatever’s left after that, well we’ll see, but if you still want to be a comics publisher when you get done with school, maybe we’ll arrange a business loan.”
“Really?”
“We’ll talk after you’ve got your diploma,” George said. “But until then, Horace, you can’t tell a soul about this, understood?”
“Understood,” Horace said.
George closed up the safe and the false panel and the four of them returned to the front office. Cartons containing the Spring 1955 edition of The Safe Negro Travel Guide were stacked up against the wall. George thumbed through a loose copy, inhaling fresh ink and wondering, as always, how much longer it would be before he could cease publication and change the name of the business to the plain old Berry Travel Agency.
A few more years, probably.
“Before you go,” he said, turning to Atticus, “I’ve got some new leads I’d like you to check out.”
“Where at?”
“Memphis. Plus a tourist home across the river in Arkansas.”
“Sure,” Atticus said. “I can take a run down this weekend.”
“Can I come?” Horace said.
“I don’t think so,” said George. “You’ve got homework this weekend, don’t you?”
“I can do it in the car.”
“Also, it’s Jim Crow country.”
“I know,” Horace said.
“Jim Crow ain’t an amusement park ride,” Montrose said, recognizing the boy’s tone.
“I know,” Horace said. “But I’ve got to see it sometime.” He looked at his father. “I’ll be thirteen next month.”
George and Montrose exchanged glances. Then Atticus spoke up: “I’d be willing to take him, if you’ll let me. And you could come too, Pop.”
“Me?” Montrose said.
“Yeah, you,” said Atticus. “You can make sure Horace draws the right lessons from what he sees. Like you did for me. And I know I’d enjoy the company.”
Montrose scowled. But he didn’t say no.
“I’d feel better if you did go,” George offered. “I’d come too, if I weren’t busy.”
“Come on, Pop,” Atticus said.
“Yeah, all right,” Montrose said. “But I’m driving . . .”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This novel had a longer gestation than most. The first seeds of inspiration were planted almost thirty years ago, in conversations with Joseph Scantlebury and Professor James Turner at Cornell University. More recently, but still a while back, I happened on Pam Noles’s essay “Shame,” about the peculiar difficulties of being a black science-fiction fan. And Ja
mes W. Loewen’s Sundown Towns introduced me to Victor H. Green’s Negro Motorist Green Book, at which point the story began to take shape.
I am indebted as always to my wife, Lisa Gold, and my agent, Melanie Jackson. Thanks are also due to Jonathan Burnham, Maya Ziv, Lydia Weaver, Tim Duggan, Barry Harbaugh, Jennifer Brehl, Karen Glass, Caitlin Foito, Amy Stolls and the National Endowment for the Arts, Alix Wilber and Richard Hugo House, Neal Stephenson, Karen Laur, Greg Bear, and Peter Yoachim.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MATT RUFF is the author of The Mirage, Bad Monkeys, Set This House in Order, Fool on the Hill, and Sewer, Gas & Electric. He lives in Seattle, Washington.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
ALSO BY MATT RUFF
The Mirage
Bad Monkeys
Set This House in Order: A Romance of Souls
Sewer, Gas & Electric: The Public Works Trilogy
Fool on the Hill
CREDITS
Cover design and illustration by Jarrod Taylor
COPYRIGHT
LOVECRAFT COUNTRY. Copyright © 2016 by Matt Ruff. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
Copyright for images: cajoer/Shutterstock, Inc.
ISBN: 978-0-06-229206-3
EPub Edition FEBRUARY 2016 ISBN 9780062292087
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