Down the center of the steps trickled a thin waterfall of blood.
He walked up the stairs, looking down at his feet, following the blood to its source. He reached a landing, turned, continued upward. Now the trickle was thicker, moving faster.
He turned on the next landing and saw seated on the top step a beautiful blond girl of approximately his own age. Her straight hair was tied in a bun at the top of her head, and she was smiling invitingly at him.
She was completely naked.
His eyes moved down her body, over her milky white breasts to her widespread legs. From the hairy, shadowed cleft between her thighs streamed an unending ribbon of blood which cascaded downward from step to step. He walked slowly up to her. She reached out to him, motioning for him to put his head in her lap, and when he again looked at her face, he saw that she had turned into his mom.
They left early the next morning, before dawn, and for breakfast they stopped in the small town of Solvang, some forty miles north of Santa Barbara. A well-known tourist attraction, Solvang was supposed to be a Danish village, but Dutch windmills, Swedish flower boxes, and a varied amalgam of Scandinavian influences could be seen in the architecture of the storybook buildings. They ate at an outdoor cafe, and Dion had something called a Belgian waffle, a huge, exaggerated waffle square piled high with fresh strawberries and whipped cream. Although he was still troubled by his dream, he felt better today about leaving Arizona, and he looked up at the blue sky, at the green, rolling hills surrounding the community. He knew Napa was still an eight-hour drive away, but he imagined it looking much the same as Solvang—small, cute, beautifully unreal. For the first time he thought he understood why his mom wanted to move to northern California’s wine country.
And then they were on the road again, taking with them a white wax sack filled with Danish pastries for the trip. The countryside grew flatter, more farmlike, and though it was initially quite scenic, the sameness of it soon grew monotonous, and Dion, lulled further by the subtle rolling motion of the car, soon fell asleep.
He awoke before lunch and was still awake an hour later as they drove into San Francisco. His mom, obviously excited, grew more talkative as they drew closer to Napa. Her enthusiasm was catching, and Dion found himself anxiously awaiting the moment they pulled up in front of their new home.
His first view of the Napa Valley was disappointing. He had been expecting to find lush green farmland surrounding a small town, a quaint clapboard community with a bandstand in the park and a steepled church overlooking a town square. Instead, the first sight they saw through the white, smoggy air was a crowded Burger King situated next to an abandoned Exxon station. After the build-up, the sight was more than just depressing. He stared out the window. There was no sign of a farm or even a grape arbor, only rather ordinary buildings on typical city streets. He glanced over at his mom. She was still happy, excited, but his own mood of anticipation had been effectively squelched. As they passed through town, he was filled with a growing feeling of dread, a feeling which reminded him for some reason of his dream.
The feeling grew as they drove by shopping centers, through subdivisions, and past tourist traps. The town became more rural, less developed, as they drove north, but it was more than just the physical surroundings which had brought upon him this dread, and he felt as though a great emotional weight had been placed upon him, a heavy, undefinable feeling which increased as they headed toward their new home.
Ten minutes later they were there. Dion stepped slowly out of the car.
The house was nicer than their house in Mesa. Much nicer. In place of the small carport and adjoining storage shed they’d had in Arizona was a beautiful redwood garage. In place of gravel and cactus was a yard filled with bushes and green trees. In place of the crackerbox dwelling was a small but breathtaking wood and glass structure straight out of Architectural Digest. The house was situated in the flatland between the hills which surrounded the valley, nominally part of a subdivision, but the way it was set back from the road, fronted by shrubbery, gave it a refreshingly rural air. His mom grinned. “How do you like it? I had someone at the office pick it out. I figured they’d have an inside track. What do you think?” Dion nodded his approval. “It’s great.”
“We’re going to be happy here, aren’t we?” He nodded slowly. “I think we are,” he said. And he was surprised to discover that he believed it.
April felt good.
They’d been here nearly a week, and it was as if they’d been living here for years. Already Napa felt more like home to her than Mesa ever had.
She stood at the kitchen window, sipping coffee, watching Dion mow the back lawn. He was shiftless and sweating, and she thought that if he wasn’t her son, she might try to seduce him. He was turning into a very good looking young man.
She wondered if he’d grow up to look like his dad.
Not that she remembered what his dad looked like.
Not that she knew who his dad was.
She smiled to herself. Omaha. There’d been a lot of guys back then.
Regular lovers as well as one-nighters. And she had never used any form of birth control. She hadn’t liked condoms or diaphragms, hadn’t liked any sort of barrier to contact, and she hadn’t been responsible enough to take birth-control pills on a regular basis. So she’d trusted to luck or fate or whatever, and had just accepted things as they came.
She was glad she’d gotten pregnant, though. She was glad she’d had Dion.
She didn’t know where she’d be today without him. Dead, she supposed.
Overdosed. Or carved up by a Mr. Goodbar.
He turned the mower, started back toward the house, saw her in the window, and waved. She waved back.
On the trip over, Dion had asked why they’d moved to Napa, and she hadn’t been able to answer him. Why had they come here? As he had pointed out, there was really no compelling reason for them to start over in this place. She had no friends or relatives in the region; her job was one she could have gotten in any mid-sized city or major metropolitan area in the country. She’d told him that it was as good as anywhere else, that it was far enough away that she wouldn’t be known, but the truth was that … She’d been Called.
Called. That was how she thought of it. It didn’t make any sort of logical sense, but emotionally it felt right. She’d seen an article on the Wine Country in the Arizona Republic’s Sunday magazine supplement, and had found herself drawn, pulled to the area. For two weeks the idea of moving had grown within her, making her nervous and anxious, growing from a desire to a necessity in her mind, intruding upon her daily thoughts until she thought she’d go crazy. It was as if something inside her was telling her that she had to move to Napa. She’d fought it at first, but she’d finally given in. She had always been one to trust her instincts.
Of course, whether they moved here or someplace else, they still would have had to move. She had no choice in the matter. She had not been laid off from the bank, as she’d told Dion. She’d been fired and threatened with prosecution. Dion probably suspected more than she’d told him and more than he let on, but she doubted that his ideas and suspicions were anywhere near as bad as the truth. The truth was that the boy had been sixteen and that he’d been seriously and permanently injured, and that if the bank manager hadn’t been involved as well, she would probably be in jail or on trial at this moment.
What was wrong with her? she wondered. Why did these sorts of things always happen to her? It wasn’t as though she didn’t try to live a normal life; it was just that this craziness kept intruding. As much as she tried to walk the straight and narrow, there was always someone or something waiting to tip her off balance. She wasn’t entirely blameless.
Much of it was, in fact, her own fault. But it just seemed like fate wasn’t doing her any favors.
All of that was over, though. This time things were going to be different. She was not going to fall back into her old habits, her old patterns. For the first time in her l
ife, she was going to be the type of mother that Dion wanted. The type of mother that he deserved.
She finished one last sip of coffee, dumped the dregs in the sink, then walked into the bedroom to get dressed.
*
“First day!” Dion nodded as he sat down to breakfast. On the table before him was a pitcher of orange juice, two slices of toast with peanut butter, and a choice of two cereals. He looked over at his mom, standing next to the sink and pouring herself a cup of coffee. She was obviously nervous. She only played Harriet Nelson when she was under extreme pressure or extremely worried—ordinarily, they ate breakfast in silence, fending for themselves.
Of course, this was the first day for both of them.
“Are you excited?” his mom asked.
“Not really.”
“Be honest.”
“More scared than excited.” He poured himself a glass of juice.
“You have nothing to be scared about. Everything’s going to be fine.”
He drank his juice. “You’re not nervous?”
“A little,” she admitted, sitting down in the chair next to him. He noticed that she was wearing a tight dress which clearly outlined the fact that she was wearing no bra. “But it’s only natural to be a little jittery at first. After the first ten minutes, though, it’s like you’ve been there all your life.”
For you maybe, Dion thought, but he said nothing. He wished he was a little bit more like his mom in social situations.
He wished she was a little bit more like him.
“Come on,” she said. “Hurry up and eat. I’ll drop you off at school.”
“That’s okay. I’ll walk.”
“You sure?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Embarrassed to have your mommy drop you off, huh?” She smiled. “I understand. But in that case you’d better eat even faster. It’s about a fifteen-or twenty minute walk, I think.”
He poured himself a bowl of cereal. “Well, maybe you can drive me part of the way,” he said.
She laughed. “Deal.”
It was an old redbrick schoolhouse, the kind seldom seen outside of movies. Two stories with indoor hallways, the main building housed both classrooms and administration, stretching parallel to the football field. A tall clock tower topped the adjoining auditorium. The gym, set slightly apart from the other two buildings, was much newer and much uglier, constructed of plain gray cement.
Dion stood across the street from school, waiting for the bell to ring and dreading it at the same time. His mouth was dry, his palms wet, and he wished to God that they had never left Arizona. He was not good at meeting people. He hadn’t known that many students at his high school in Mesa, and he had been there since freshman year. Coming to a new school, starting from scratch … it was going to be tough.
At least it wasn’t the middle of the semester. He was thankful for that.
It would have been much worse to walk in on classes already in progress, where all the relationships would have been established and cemented for the year. Now, at least, he would be in on the courses from the beginning. He might be new, but he would be able to start off on somewhat equal footing with his classmates. He would have a chance.
There would probably be other new kids here as well, students who’d transferred to the school over the summer, students who, like him, would be looking for someone to meet.
He walked across the street and up the steps into the schoolhouse.
Coming to a new school was frightening, but in a way it was also exciting. He knew no one in Napa, so no one would have any preconceived ideas about him. He carried no baggage. He was, as far as the students here were concerned, a blank slate, and he could create of himself anything he wanted. A few well-placed lies, the proper clothes, and he could be a jock or a party animal or … anything.
Theoretically.
Dion smiled wryly. He knew himself well enough to know his place in the school hierarchy. He was neither athletic nor spectacularly handsome, neither a class clown nor a bravura talker. He was smart but not in the subjects guaranteed to bring him social acceptability. As much as he might try to alter his personality, his true nature would undoubtedly win out over any self-imposed public image.
He was not going to be Joe Popular here either.
But that was okay. He was used to it.
He stood outside the classroom and looked down at his schedule as if checking to make sure the room number was correct. He knew perfectly well that he was in front of the right room, but this conspicuous display of his newness somehow made him feel more secure, less afraid.
Students pushed rudely past him, around him, entering the class. He had half hoped that Napa High would be like those sitcom schools on TV where friendly students would notice his discomfort and immediately try to make him feel at home. No such luck. He was ignored; no one even noticed him.
He walked into class, aware that he was sweating heavily, and glanced quickly around, taking in the lay of the land. The desks in the middle of the room were taken, he saw, but there were a few open spaces in the back row, and the front row was entirely free.
He opted for the back.
He could hide better there.
Seating himself in the middle desk of an empty trio, directly behind a sullen-looking boy in a dirty T-shirt and a heavily made-up Hispanic girl, he looked around the room. He had expected the kids here to be cooler than those in Mesa. After all, this was California. But the students surrounding him all looked faintly anachronistic, the boys’ hair a little too long, the girls’ appearance a little too casual.
Obviously the latest wave of fashion which had crashed over Phoenix had come directly from southern California, its edges lapping only faintly at the northern part of the golden state.
He looked down again at his schedule of classes: American Government, Algebra II, Classical Mythology, World Economics, Rock History, and AP English. He was enrolled in what, for this school, was the standard college prep lineup. His sole elective, and the only class which looked like it would be any fun at all, was Rock History. The others were strict by-the-book academic courses, although in the case of the mythology class he had chosen the lesser of two evils; the alternative would have been a foreign language.
At least PE was not a required course at this school. That was one thing for which he was grateful. He was not good in sports, and he always felt a little embarrassed undressing in front of other guys.
An average-looking kid with blond mid-length hair dropped his books on the next desk over and sat down. His eyes flicked dismissively over Dion, who smiled bravely, determined to at least try to meet new people this first day.
“Hi,” he said.
The kid looked at him, snorted. “What’s your name? Dick?”
Dion thought for only a second before deciding to take the plunge.
“That’s what your mama called me last night.”
The kid stared at him for a moment, then laughed, and suddenly it was like one of those sitcom schools.
He had made his first friend in Napa.
As simple as that.
“What’s your real name?” the kid asked.
“Dion,” he said.
“I’m Kevin.” He gestured magnanimously around the room. “And this is hell.”
It wasn’t as bad as all that. The subject was boring, but the teacher seemed nice, and since it was the first day he let everyone out early so they would have time to find their next class. “Where you off to now?”
Kevin asked in the hallway.
“Algebra II.”
“Whoa.”
“What do you have?”
“English. Then Classical Mythology, then PE, then Rock History, then Economics.”
“Looks like we have two more classes together,” Dion said. “Mythology and Rock History.”
Kevin frowned. “Together? What do you think we are? Butt buddies?”
“I didn’t mean—” Dion began, flustered.
&n
bsp; “I thought I saw some pixie dust on your shoulder.” Kevin backed up, shaking his head. “I’m out of here.” And he headed down the hall, disappearing into the crowd which began streaming out of the line of doorways as the bell rang.
Dion stood there stupidly. Apparently he had crossed over some behavioral line peculiar to the subculture of this school, said the wrong word in the wrong way, and had offended his new friend. He worried about it all through math. But when he took an empty seat near the window of his Mythology class an hour later, Kevin sat down next to him as if nothing had happened.
Obviously Kevin’s abrupt departure was a perfectly ordinary way of saying goodbye around here.
He would have to remember that.
Dion scanned the room, scoping out his fellow students. Kevin followed his gaze and commented on each individual who came under his scrutiny, revealing tidbits of gossip, information, personality quirks, but he shut up quickly when the teacher entered the room. Mr. Holbrook, a tall, thin man with an angular, bird-like face, put his briefcase down on the desk and strode directly to the blackboard, where he began writing his name in clear block letters.
He was followed through the door by the stairway girl from Dion’s dream.
Dion blinked, held his breath. The resemblance was truly remarkable. The girl was wearing fashionable fall school clothes, and her hair was curled and hanging free rather than straight and tied up, but the similarity between the two was nothing less than amazing. His eyes followed the girl as she sat down in an empty seat in the second row.
She was gorgeous, almost unbelievably gorgeous, and she had about her a reserved, almost shy quality that made her seem even more attractive and which immediately distinguished her from her dream double.
He wanted to ask Kevin who she was, but it was clear from the silence of the classroom and the unyielding rigidity of the writing teacher’s back that talk would not be tolerated during this period.
He settled in for a long hour, content merely to look. After a short introduction, Mr. Holbrook called roll, and Dion discovered that her name was Penelope. Penelope Daneam. It was a nice name, a conservative, old-fashioned name, and he found that he liked that.
Dominion Page 2