The Juliet

by Laura Ellen Scott

  “Not hide.”

  “Sorry. We’ll ‘get rid’ of them. In the right place where they can’t do any more damage.”

  Florian nodded and returned the stones to the depths of his pocket.

  A thin, high voice interrupted them. “I know a wonderful place.”

  It was Jub. He seemed to appear from nowhere. He was dressed in large khaki shorts, a shirt of the same material, a cap, and a kerchief scarf. A Boy Scout’s uniform, and this time, instead of the clothes being too small for his arachnoid frame, they were a size too large. He was swimming in them. His hair, though clamped down by the cap, still stuck out like straw.

  There was no chance Budge was dreaming this time. The boy was here. The boy was real. And he had been eavesdropping.

  Before Budge could chastise the gangly spy, Florian stepped forward, clearly relieved. “Where?” he asked.

  Jub stood tall, excited to be noticed at all. He said in that shivery, thin voice, “Follow me.”

  Budge and Florian trailed the boy as he leapt over stones and weeds, leading them all down into the valley past the ruins of Centenary and paying no attention to existing paths. The morning chill was long gone, and Budge was perspiring. Florian sweated all the time anyway, so it was hard to tell if he was uncomfortable.

  Budge participated without complaint because he needed time to figure things out. It was tricky now that the boy was involved. Budge would have to act cool and friendly. Like this was all logical and right.

  “You like being in the Scouts, kid?”

  “I’m not in the Scouts,” said Jub. “We move too much.”

  Budge knew Theo was a dirty operator, and the condition of the kid meant there was no Mrs. Theo in the picture. “You go to school?”

  “I don’t need to.” The boy concentrated on his footing among the rocks.

  So that was what Theo had told the kid. Or maybe Jub was a mental deficient. Or both. Either way, the kid led a lonesome life. Maybe this was just a game to him, and Budge and Florian were his temporary playmates.

  The kid jumped ahead by a yard, and puffs of dust blew up around his sneakers. “Here it is,” he said, only he said ‘tis like a British orphan.

  They had come to a stop at a surprisingly colorful trash pile. Chains hanging from rebar spikes described a rectangle that Budge recognized, despite the scarves, plastic flowers, and sparkling baubles everywhere. So did Florian; he withdrew his rosary from inside his shirt as soon as he saw the painted wooden cross.

  “It’s a grave,” said Jub.

  “We can see that.” Budge read the name. “Lily Joy. RIP.”

  The grave was littered with female junk, the kind of stuff Auntie Aud would think was glamorous. Bangles and feathers, hand mirrors, old makeup. Whoever was buried here, she had fans.

  Jub turned to Florian and interrupted his prayers. “If you don’t want anyone to find your green balls, you can leave them here. For the lady.”

  Budge looked at the trash covering the grave. The kid believed that the emeralds were no different than the paste jewelry others had left behind.

  Jub said, “No one would dare take them. Not from a grave.”

  Florian was impressed.

  Ah, the logic of the feeble and the faithful.

  “Yes,” said Florian. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the halves of The Juliet. He kissed them.

  Budge said, “Be easy, Florian. The stones look tender.”

  Florian leaned as far over the chain as he dared and dropped the halves onto a tangle of scarves and glass beads. The emeralds sunk into the mess like coquinas on a wet beach. It was a neat trick, Budge thought. The famed gems were barely detectable.

  Jub smiled. He wasn’t used to success.

  When Florian straightened, he definitely looked younger. He clapped his hands.

  “Well, gentlemen,” said Budge. “Now all that remains is the sacred pact.”

  The boy didn’t know what that word meant.

  “What we want to know son, is can we trust you to keep your mouth shut?”

  At that point the boy’s mouth was actually hanging slack in its normal resting position. He took a moment to think up the right words. “You have my solemn oath.”

  “And you Florian? Tick a lock.” Budge made the traditional gesture in front of his lips, putting a little extra flourish on the part where, after securing the lock he threw away the key.

  Florian watched the arc of the imaginary key and nodded vigorously.

  As they started back up the hill to the campsite, Budge could not resist a last glance at the grave of Lily Joy. It was remarkable. The boy was right. He couldn’t see The Juliet at all. And Florian had gotten what he wanted, so there was comfort in that, as well. There was no telling what kind of hell would be unleashed when Audrey finally decided to inspect the bath oil beads.

  Jub was a loose end, solemn oath notwithstanding. Halfway back to the camp, the boy stopped and squinted into the sky. Theo looked down at them from High Street. The boy waved, but all his father did was walk away.

  Theo was a piece of work. The man’s soullessness had reached out in the night, even as Budge slept. What kind of father dresses his kid in rags, keeps him out of school and away from people, but lets him run around the desert on his own and worse—with a known killer like Florian Beale?

  Budge said to Jub, “He doesn’t hurt you, does he?”

  Jub said, “No.”

  “I know you’re lying, kiddo.”

  Florian went on ahead of Budge and the boy, trudging and puffing, so happy to be free of his curse-bearing sister.

  The boy said, “I’m not lying.”

  Budge felt a twinge of something for Jub, sorrow for the boy’s future. “I won’t tell.”

  “You can’t tell,” said Jub. “No one must tell.”

  “I told you. It’s okay, don’t panic.”

  Jub’s face was crinkling. It wasn’t okay. Whatever it was, it wasn’t okay and never would be.

  * * *

  That night, the final night that Florian, Audrey, and Budge would camp out in Centenary, Budge drank and slept in the Roadmaster again. This time he dreamed about killing Theo and rescuing Jub, but it wasn’t a clean dream that Budge could be proud of. In it, Jub was a girl. When Budge woke in the middle of the night, he decided to stay awake and not return to the clutches of his cruddy subconscious.

  He crawled out of the car and noticed right away that Theo’s Buick was gone. Jub and his vaguely wicked Pop had bugged out in the night, perhaps prompted by the boy’s unanticipated ability to make friends. Theo probably didn’t like that one bit.

  Budge grabbed a flashlight and his leather jacket and stepped out of the car. Now was a good time as any to hike down and retrieve The Juliet. He loved the crunch of his boots on the rubble roads, the cool air in his lungs, and the stars that looked so close he could swat them away. All that was left of the beer in his system was the metal taste in the back of his throat. He lit a cigarette and let the smoke fill him like a spirit.

  There was another reason Budge liked Centenary. He could imagine living a decent life out in the desert, maybe in a trailer as crummy as Theo’s. Independence was a powerful thing, just as good, or better, than a swimming pool or a two-car garage. Budge hadn’t had a good paying acting job in a long time. His savings were running out fast, and he’d been planning to move in with Florian and Aud if she’d let him. That was the real reason he’d brought them on this mini vacation—to make the case that they could think of themselves, the three of them, as a family of sorts.

  The little money he had could go a long way in Centenary, though. All he needed was gas and drinking money. A man could do a whole lot worse.

  And of course there was The Juliet. Who needs family when you have a legend at your fingertips? Budge knew his agent would help him find a fence. Maybe he’d sell one chunk and keep the other for a rainy day? Or maybe he’d just hold on to both halves and wai
t for a monsoon.

  He reckoned he was halfway to the gravesite when he noticed that one of the lights in the night sky was more terrestrial than celestial. The closer he got to the grave site, the more fixed the light became, somehow sliding down to the void line of the horizon. It was a lantern, burning somewhere up the rock wall at the end of the basin. Not a star at all.

  He’d seen the narrow burro path earlier that day but never thought about where it went. That was a mystery for boys, not men. Irrationally, he imagined Theo and Jub preparing to ambush him when he returned for The Juliet, but Theo was a man of shadows. He’d never use a lantern. Theo’s trailer remained dark, even when he and the boy were in residence.

  No, that the light was domestic. Someone camping up there.

  When Budge came upon the gravesite, he fished out his flashlight and said, “Pardon me, sweetheart,” as he climbed over the chain in the dark, crushing a few of the more delicate offerings scattered around the perimeter of Lily Joy’s grave.

  They’d deposited the emerald halves in the deepest mess of tacky treasures, somewhere over the buried lady’s heart. Budge wondered how far down she was, and as he plunged his hand into the pile he scared himself a little by imagining the dead woman’s bony fingers thrusting up to meet his.

  That didn’t happen. Budge could feel one of the emerald halves immediately, its texture hard and smooth. It was warmer than any of the other trinkets. He pulled it out and congratulated himself for being so good at finding things. He had an uncanny skill. It took a little longer to find the other half, and when he did, the back of his hand bled from an encounter with a broken martini glass. He wiped it on the leg of his jeans and jammed the two parts of The Juliet into separate pockets.

  When he stepped out of the grave, Budge felt a flush of accomplishment. There was no telling what the future had in store, but now he finally had the resources to make something of it, even if that meant being patient.

  He lit another cigarette and smoked it over the wooden cross, staring up at the night sky. One day in the future, after Florian kicked the bucket, his Aunt would haul a wobbly kitchen chair into the bathroom and climb up onto it to retrieve her reward from the high shelf. Her treasured owls. She’d pull off the tin lids, shedding flecks of golden paint to claw through bath beads that would be hard as bullets by then. She would know it was Budge who had stolen her prize.

  Budge withdrew two more cigarettes from the pack and tossed them into Lily Joy’s memorial. He wasn’t spiritual or superstitious, but he did believe in hedging his bets when possible. “Thanks, Doll. We make a good team.”

  The music was so natural that at first he didn’t notice that it was coming from somewhere outside his own head. A solo violin was prominent, mournful as violins always are, and then there was the vague, almost insecure accompaniment of piano. Budge’s head tilted towards the rock wall. Strange. Budge couldn’t get a decent radio station to come in on the Roadmaster. If he did move out to the desert, that was something to consider. A man can’t live without music.

  He used his flashlight to find the burro path. Minor temptations are always the most successful ones. He only intended to follow the path a short way, but he soon discovered that its twists and turns were hard to resist. He kept telling himself he just wanted to see what was around the next bend. Eventually the burro trail intersected a wider one, and Budge found himself inside the canyon walls on a gritty but solid road. In the sweep of the flashlight he discovered tire tracks.

  The road extended far beyond where the burro trail joined it, and that meant there was a back way into Centenary, accessible by car or truck. The music grew more defined as he climbed the road, and eventually he recognized the tune. Chopin. Music for squares.

  It made sense when he rounded an enormous boulder and discovered the little house set back from the bluff’s edge. One light burned inside, the lantern he’d seen from below, and the music poured out of an open window.

  Quite suddenly, a silhouette of a tall man appeared at the window, and it occurred to Budge that anyone who lived in the desert was probably well armed.

  He raised his hands, one of them still holding the flashlight, and in its beam Budge could see that the canyon wall was much taller than he had imagined.

  “Apologies for the intrusion,” Budge called out. “I got a little lost.”

  The man disappeared from the window, but the music continued. Another light illuminated a second window closer to the front of the tiny house.

  The door opened, and the man inside filled half of it, his large frame curling sideways. He was leaning on a cane.

  Budge brought his hands down, switched off the flashlight. “I was just following the music.”

  The man gestured with his stick. Come here.

  As Budge approached, he saw that the man was incredibly old and maybe six feet tall, almost too tall for the little house. He had long white hair, and he was wearing pinstripe pants with carpet slippers and a ragged suit jacket over a threadbare V-neck undershirt. The clothes must have fit him once upon a time, but now they hung from his bones like battle-worn flags.

  “I wandered off the trail,” said Budge.

  “No matter.” The old man stifled a cough. “You’re finally here.” He spoke as if he knew his visitor.

  That sometimes happened. Budge may not have been famous, but he was recognizable. “I’m Budge Lange.”

  The old man accepted his hand. His fingernails looked like animal bones. “Welcome home, Budge. I’m Marcus Skinner, the Mayor of Centenary.”

  * * *

  The Mayor’s two lanterns were small and smoky, mercifully hung near the open windows, but the rest of the furnishings were completely modern. There was a gleaming new Frigidaire humming away in the corner of the kitchen, and the sitting room featured a green naugahyde sofa and matching chair arranged around a long coffee table with mixed veneers creating a diamond pattern along the edges.

  The Mayor said, “Please, you like music.” He pointed towards a portable suitcase style phonograph and the stack of records in brown paper sleeves beside it. The labels were wine colored.

  “You have electricity up here,” said Budge.

  “Thank you Charles Schooner. You know, the industrialist?” The old man hustled Budge into the chair. “Centenary was an experiment of the age. Schooner invented it out of nothing, laid the rails and the power lines. He conjured a white city in the desert, fully electrified. The main lines are buried and still functional. The above ground works have been scavenged over the years. Do you like brandy?”

  Skinner shuffled to an antique sideboard, atop which the bottle and several short tumblers waited. He touched the bottle and breathed out a harsh breath meant to be a sigh. “I’ll bring the bottle to the table.”

  “Here, let me help you.” Budge took over and urged his host onto the sofa as he collected the tumblers. He poured heavy for the old gent. It was a gesture of respect that did not go unnoticed. When Budge settled back with his own drink he asked, “Why the lanterns?”

  “I was born in 1864. I spent all of my formative years in the dark, comparatively. My eyes never quite adjusted to the new light.”

  Budge looked around. “You don’t have a television.”

  The mayor shook his head. “Can’t go to the cinema, either. Brings on terrible aches.”

  “Oh. I thought you recognized me. I’m an actor.”

  “How wonderful for you. We have an Opera House.”

  “So I’ve seen.” Budge wondered if the old man knew about the pending renovation. “I’ve never worked the stage.”

  Skinner smiled. He had all his teeth, but they were short, blunted by the years. “Well, we’ll have to fix that.”

  “Sir?”

  “I know. Young men have no patience for destiny.” The mayor took a long swallow from his tumbler. He said, “You like the house? You like Centenary?”

  “I do. Leaving first thing in the morning, though.”
<
br />   Skinner kept smiling. “You’ll come back.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  Budge drained his glass and Skinner watched admiringly. He said, “I’ve lived here since I was forty years old, and back then forty was old. You’re about forty?”

  “Thirty-eight.”

  Another smile from the Mayor. “You’re lying, but I suppose that’s a hazard of the profession. My point is, I don’t remember much about being young, but I had a young wife.” He gestured nonspecifically to the great beyond. “My Lily.”

  Lily. Budge had been playing in her grave. He was surprised to notice his tumbler was full again. He hadn’t seen the old man move.

  “She died young. Terrible circumstances.” Skinner leaned forward to emphasize, “Violently.”

  The Mayor seemed to dangle the word in front of Budge like a cat toy.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “She’s still with me, you know. A young bride is supposed to keep a man young as well, but she is different.” He reached for the worn handle of his wooden cane, just to worry it some more. “Lily keeps me old. She took the best of me and then lost it.”

  Budge couldn’t taste the liquor, but the Mayor seemed delighted with his own drink.

  The Mayor said, “Still, the lady keeps me company.”

  Something was happening, but Budge didn’t know what. He felt odd, overwhelmed. “What’s going on,” he managed, although he sounded very distant, even to his own ears.

  “That heaviness in your breast? You’ll grow accustomed to it.”

  In dreams one often thinks, hey, wait a minute, this is just a dream, just before waking in damp sheets, alone, relieved but sad as well. Budge suspected that was the case now, but no matter how hard he tried to shake himself to consciousness, nothing changed. He couldn’t break the moment.

  The old man was almost sympathetic. “Lily says you have something for me.”

  The Juliet? Florian said there was an old man. He said his mother’s lover took the emeralds from an old man who lived in Centenary.