The Complete Short Fiction of Charles L. Grant, Volume IV: The Black Carousel

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The Complete Short Fiction of Charles L. Grant, Volume IV: The Black Carousel Page 14

by Charles L. Grant


  Close enough to see the weave of the straw.

  “Drake?”

  She was frightened.

  He grinned.

  “Drake, you’re not going to hurt me, are you?”

  He had it now. He had it.

  Her arms fell away slowly.

  “Don’t hurt me, Drake. Be nice. Don’t hurt me.”

  But she didn’t move away.

  He knew why.

  He was in control.

  Perhaps subconsciously before, but definitely consciously now. He was in control, and whatever he did to Deena he would do of his own choice.

  The cobra lashed out of the basket before he could react. It struck her in the stomach, dropped, rose, struck her again on the hip.

  She screamed.

  He stopped.

  Skin turning black, turning purple, turning a hideous yellow; splitting and spitting blood.

  Damn, he thought, and turned away.

  “If you don’t stop,” she said, “I’m going to break you in half.”

  He kept walking toward the exit, elbowing aside a young man swaggering along with his girl.

  “Damnit, Drake!”

  Jill tried to grab his shoulder, but he shrugged the hand away. “I gotta get home, okay?” he said, not caring if she heard him. His choice this time, not hers.

  “Drake, you’re nuts!” From her voice, she wasn’t following. He waved her a good-bye and passed under the arch, crossed Mainland Road and headed for home. The music softened behind him. The voice of the crowd became a murmur. The wind kicked at him and he kicked back, sending a stone into the street.

  Dark houses.

  He didn’t care.

  This weekend would be one his aunt and uncle would never forget. One word, one cockeyed look, and he’d let them know what he’d been thinking for the past ten years. His mother would be furious, but he’d feel great. As long as, he reminded himself, he held onto his resolve. And to do that, all he had to do was remember what he’d done, what he had cause to have done, to Wendall and Chuck and Deena and the others. How it happened didn’t matter. Dreams, wish fulfillment, sidestepping into a world where he wasn’t so thoughtful after all — it didn’t matter. The guilt and the fear were gone, replaced by something still under experimentation. As of now it had no taste, but when he was finished he knew it would taste sweet.

  A snake hissed in the gutter.

  He stepped off the curb and walked on.

  Tomorrow — maybe — he’d call Jill to apologize. Not humble himself. Just apologize. If she wanted more, she’d have to wait, and wait a long time.

  A shadow stalked him across darkened lawns. At the corner, he whirled and drew his gun, fired, heard the scream, and walked on.

  And tomorrow — definitely — he’d go to the newspaper and suggest to the editor that he was a little tired of writing paragraphs about birthday parties and high school awards. Even in the Station, damnit, there were more important things than that. How the hell, he would say, am I going to learn about the news if I don’t get to do anything about it?

  If the editor complained, he would walk out, what the hell.

  And if his mother complained, he would tell her that he loved her, and she should mind her own business, that he had his own map now and finally knew how to read it.

  A waltz played on a harpsichord.

  He clapped his hands impatiently.

  The music stopped.

  “Make love to me, Drake,” a woman asked from behind a hedge.

  “Put your clothes on,” he answered without breaking stride. “Ask me again tomorrow.”

  At the last corner, his corner, he stopped and clasped his hands, placed them against his lips and stared up block.

  No lights.

  No movement.

  An automobile parked in front of his house.

  A brief moment of panic — damn, they’re here already; shit, I’m in trouble — before he lowered his hands to his pockets, squared his shoulders. And moved on, slowing in puzzlement when he recognized his mother’s car, and there was none in the drive.

  So they weren’t here yet.

  Despite his resolution he couldn’t help the relief, pleased he wouldn’t have to display his excuses.

  Halfway up the walk he saw her on the porch.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Where were you?”

  “Didn’t you read the note?”

  “I’ve been home for over an hour, Drake. I had hoped you’d be here.”

  At the bottom of the steps he stopped, rubbed the back of his neck, and hoped she saw his apologetic smile. “I went a little nuts,” he explained. “I did everything — did you see the steaks in the fridge? — and couldn’t sit anymore.” He heard the whining, couldn’t help it. “I wasn’t gone for more than a couple of hours.” A deep breath. “C’mon, Mom, what’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal,” she said, voice tight, “is that if you had been here like you were supposed to be, I wouldn’t have had to wait to tell you.”

  Control, he ordered; don’t lose it now.

  “Mom —”

  “They’re dead.”

  His laugh was short. “What?”

  “They’re dead.”

  Up a step. She backed away toward the door.

  “Mom, what the hell are you talking about? Who’s dead?”

  “Wendall,” she said flatly. “Sheri. The kids.”

  The second step, although his legs felt like wood.

  “The state police said — ”

  “State police?”

  “— they had apparently gotten the car fixed —”

  “Mom, what are —”

  She stamped her foot. “Do not. Interrupt. Me.”

  Third step, with palms slick and a hint of ice on his back.

  Dead? Deena and Barbi?

  His mother a black ghost beside the screen door, features faint, still in the blouse and skirt she had worn to work that morning.

  “They were nearly to Harley when a truck — a milk truck, for god’s sake — swerved over the center line. Wendall tried to avoid it, but he was speeding — trying to get here, obviously and clipped the truck and hit a tree.”

  Not a dream; not a dreamer.

  “Oh Jesus, Mom.”

  A cricket relieved the silence, soon followed by one tree frog calling to another.

  “Come up here.”

  It’s all right, he told himself; this doesn’t change anything. You’ve still got control now. You’re just going to have to help her through this. Later; you can tell her later.

  On the porch he let her take his left hand; hers was dry, parchment, as if she suffered a high fever.

  “You have no idea,” she said quietly, her voice breaking, “how long I’ve waited.”

  “Mom, please, it wasn’t —”

  She opened the screen door and propped it with one foot. The inner door was already ajar. “Years. It seems like a hundred.”

  “Years?” This was getting too much. “Mom, if it was more than two hours, I’ll eat Mr. Tarman’s glider.”

  She reached over her head and smacked the beveled globe, smacked it again until the night-light came on. Then she stepped inside, pulling him toward her. He resisted, thinking maybe she was a little crazy with grief When she pulled again, however, he obeyed.

  And stopped.

  “Years,” she repeated wearily, and snapped her fingers. The kitchen light came on. “I never thought it would happen.”

  He couldn’t move.

  “What? What would happen?”

  Another snap; a lamp in the living room showed him her face. She was grinning, with tears in her eyes.

  “You know,” she said, and laughed without a sound. “You saw it.”

  He couldn’t move.

  “Mom?”

  “They picked at me,” she said bitterly, still smiling. “Like I was a chicken bone, leftover turkey. They picked me to death, and they wouldn’t stop.” A hand reached into the ligh
t and touched his chest, brushed it, pulled away. “He went away, the bastard, and they swooped in like vultures. They sat on me. They picked. Rene’s the baby, Wendall, she doesn’t know what she’s doing.” Her eyes closed. “I swear to God, Drake, I don’t know what I would have done if it hadn’t come back.”

  He couldn’t move, could scarcely breathe.

  She winked. “I took a ride, dear. Just like you did. On Tuesday, remember? He took me to the fair.”

  Oh Jesus oh God.

  “And you,” she said, “thought it was you, didn’t you?”

  Couldn’t move.

  Wanted to scream.

  “Darling,” she said, almost crooning, “I’m your mother, sweetheart, I’m not stupid. And don’t look at me like that, dear. Don’t think you’re going to get away before I decide it’s time.” The hand again, patting his chest, dusting it, pinching it once. Hard. “Think about it. Stand there a little while and think about it.” Her face hardened, became sharp, inhuman. “I have quite an imagination, Drake. Don’t believe for a minute I can’t lose you too if it means losing control.”

  She walked away slowly, humming, running a finger over the newel post as she headed for the kitchen.

  Her shadow on the floor was of a woman, dancing; her shadow on the wall was cobra spreading its hood; the figure passing through the doorway was a vulture settling its wings.

  He tried to move, tried to call her, but he was trapped and he knew it, and knew there was nothing he could do as long as he was lost in the amber light.

  His mother knew it too.

  She knew him as well, had shaped him and trained him and made certain that he wouldn’t turn out like his father; she had loved him and nursed him and encased him in debt swaddled in devotion; she had educated and disciplined and directed and loved.

  The sun rose.

  Jill came looking for him, and was told that he had gone off with some friends first thing that morning and wouldn’t be back until nightfall.

  Kayman Kalb came looking for work, and was set to sweeping the porch and sidewalk, trimming the edges of the lawn, sitting with his mother on the porch swing and eating a sandwich before leaving.

  The sun set.

  The air cooled.

  Jill didn’t return.

  And Drake, far from lost in the amber light, didn’t panic, simply waited.

  Tonight.

  Tomorrow.

  It didn’t matter.

  The bulb would burn out or loosen in its socket the way it always did, the way his father had left it.

  He knew where the extra bulbs were, and he had ridden the carousel, heard the music tin and silver.

  All he needed was control.

  She would teach him how to use it.

  IV: The Rain Is Filled With Ghosts Tonight

  The last hour of the dead; the long graven hour before the sun bleeds the horizon, when nothing distinguishes tree from sky, lawn from road, dreams from sitting up and screaming in the dark; when the day’s weighted heat hasn’t yet begun to simmer; when birds and cats and large shapeless crows stir for early hunting, when cattle in a valley bam begin to shift nervously in their stalls, when chickens in a valley coop begin to talk to one another, softly, querying, ruffling their feathers, blinking their eyes; when dark cars in dark driveways begin to grumble in preparation for a dark ride into light; when the souls that remember return to their husks, and the souls that forget can’t find their way home.

  In the last hour of the dead.

  The house in the middle of the block between Poplar and Thorn was long and low and feeling its age. Two stories and dark green, a squat peaked roof and a pair of out-of-true chimneys, the windows with shutters nailed open, shades drawn halfway, white curtains tufted and closed. It was overhung with trees, a few branches brushing the shingles and allowing the squirrels to take shortcuts at midnight and sometimes find their way into the attic. Cedar chips scattered around flowering shrubs on the front lawn. Fat evergreen shrubs hiding the foundation.

  The porch, narrow and warped to a slight cant across the width of the house, had its stairs on the left end, leading down to a path of three chipped flagstones, which in tum led to a weed-marked blacktop drive. At the top of the stairs, on either side, two potted yuccas that nearly touched the flat roof Gingerbread around the squared posts and window frames. Ivy and dense fern in clay pots hanging from the ceiling, swinging gently, chains silent. A large brown cat, indolent, insolent, curled by the doormat. At the far end, a standing glider, rain-warped, hinge-rusted, flanked by wrought iron tables to hold ashtrays and glasses.

  Four chairs, one a rocker.

  After a second’s consideration, Kayman settled in the one nearest the steps and with a grunt propped his slippered feet on the railing. It wasn’t very comfortable considering the state of his knees, much easier when he was younger, but it was the only way he knew how to sit out here without feeling as if he were a captive in some god awful home, waiting for an officious scrawny nurse to bring a blanket for his legs and a scolding for being out. Defiantly casual, the hell with the cramps. Then: the hell with this too, what are you trying to prove, you’re all alone, you old fart. But he waited a long second before lowering his legs, then pulled the chair forward and folded his hands across his stomach. Better; much better. This way he could see Northland Avenue without having to squint between his feet. Not that there was anything to see this time of day, but it was the principle that mattered, and the fact that he was ready.

  He was a large man still, though his arms showed signs of shrinking, and over the past two years he’d let his hair grow to his shoulders. The young men stared with amusement, the young women sometimes shook their heads in pity, but he didn’t mind the reaction as long as they didn’t laugh in his face.

  This far along, he figured he’d earned the right to do what he wanted, look how he wanted, sit all damn day if he wanted without being scolded.

  Behind him, a light he sensed more than saw.

  She was up.

  She was always up when the space beside her was empty. She would call him, call again, before grabbing her robe from the bedside chair and slipping it on, come down to the kitchen and stand at the stove wondering which would be better this morning, tea or cocoa. Whichever it was, it would be too hot. In the middle of a blizzard, it would always be too hot.

  All right, you old jackass, he thought; all right, no need to be cranky. She does her best, she ain’t a magician, y’know.

  Have to be, he answered, stick with you all this time.

  Begrudging smile, and a grunt.

  The breath of a west wind trembled the ivy and lace-top ferns, a branch creaked, leaves pawing at the house, the panes, like the small hands of beggars; somewhere up the street, wind chimes discordant and distant enough to be a dream.

  The smell of damp.

  He leaned forward then, looked up from under the eaves, tried to tell from the missing stars if the cloud he had seen the night before was still there, if there would be rain today. For a change. The grass, while not dying, wouldn’t last much longer; the flowers, while not wilting, would soon lose their brilliance. He could use the sprinkler the way his neighbors did, of course, in the middle of the night when they thought no one was watching, no one could hear. But they could afford the higher quarterly bills; they could pay without wincing.

  Rain was what he needed.

  For this, and other things.

  But he could see nothing conclusive. Too many streets, and the street lamps too bright despite their foliage cloaks. He’d have to wait until sunrise.

  The cat stirred then, claws scratching across the straw welcome mat, a single thump when its tail met the wall, a single mutter when it yawned.

  She was coming.

  His hands, still clasped, shifted to rest beneath his chin, felt the stubbles there and rubbed across them. He had last shaved two days ago, best he could remember. Maybe today he’d strop the old razor and mow his cheeks clear, maybe not. She was the onl
y one who would have cared, and she didn’t. She kissed him anyway, wrinkling her nose and lightly boxing his ear, telling him she would pack and run away if he didn’t make himself presentable, for her if not the world.

  She wouldn’t.

  The grass grew and the cat slaughtered birds and she was always there when he woke up in the middle of the night, listening to the voices whisper under his window.

  The screen door complained.

  The cat arched its back and waddled to the glider, sniffed the thin cushion, jumped up, and settled with a great chorus of rusty hinges.

  “This is getting to be a habit,” she said, not really complaining, taking the chair beside him and settling her robe about her knees, tucking her feet back. “Maybe we could move the mattress down here, you wouldn’t fall down the stairs in the middle of the night.”

  He nodded.

  A cup nudged his arm until he took it, blew on it, sipped it.

  Tea, and too damn hot. Gingerly he placed it on the floor beside him before it burned through his fingers.

  Wind soughing and sighing, a leaf jumping in the drive.

  “Don’t see why you don’t put on the porch light.”

  “I like the dark,” he told her, as he’d told her before, many times. “The light’s too damn noisy this time of day.”

  “This time of day is for sleeping, not sitting.” Footsteps on the pavement, soft and slow.

  “No. Thinking.”

  She chuckled. “Oh really, now. About what? You do it every morning most days anymore. What’s left to think about?”

  The footsteps approached the house from the right. Soft and slow. Not someone walking a dog, not someone home impossibly late from a party. Not someone heading for work, impossibly early. Someone walking. Soft and slow. Taking his time.

  The rocker tipped back as a short rotund man in a well-worn tweed jacket ridiculously warm for the weather and much too tight across his shoulders sat down with a theatrical moan, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. “The trouble with getting married, Kayman,” he said, hoarse and reedy, “is that you’re never alone when you want to be.”

  “I’m not married, Johnny.”

  “Oh. Of course. I forgot.”

 

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