The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Fourth Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  Mama came back to the table, took away our empty bowls and spoons, and washed them, untied and hung up her apron on its hook by the refrigerator, poured herself a cup of coffee, and then sat down in Bobby’s chair.

  “Timothy, you’ve been spending time down at the graveyard—haven’t you?” She said it all casual-like, but her green eyes swung up at me, even though her head was tilted down at her coffee cup.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mama looked down again; carefully grasping her cup by its handle with her right hand, thumb on top, she slowly turned the saucer underneath with her left. “You know what your papa would do if he found out, don’t you?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Her lips formed a thin, straight line across the bottom of her face, and she stopped turning the saucer. “Your Aunt Fannie loved you very much too.” She glanced at me, almost like she was afraid I would say something, then took a deep breath and went on. “You know, you were such a colicky baby, and so fussy, your Aunt Fannie was over here quite a bit after you were born. She said she felt like it was her duty, her being your godmother and all.”

  Mama was silent for a moment. She hesitated briefly, then lifted the cup to her lips and sipped, setting it back with slow, graceful determination, still not looking at me. “Your papa was having hard times at the store, so we couldn’t afford hired help like we could with Bobby. Least, that’s what he said; I could never tell the difference between the hard times and the good times there, just by going in and looking. I don’t suppose that made it any less true, though.”

  She looked at me now, and smiled her twitchy smile. “There were times I used to wonder if there wasn’t anything more to raising babies than feeding you, and washing your dirty diapers, and cleaning you up. And I used to wonder if you were ever going to be anything but hungry, or in pain, or just crabby. That’s why your Aunt Fannie was such a godsend.” Mama leaned back in her chair. “You used to fuss so, and cry and cry and cry, and there was nothing anybody could do for you until Fannie came over. She knew lots of ways to quiet you, her raising a family that had been and gone already; but your favorite was her music box. She’d bring that little thing with her, and open it up and you’d be just all smiles and wonder. Not that it worked when anybody else played it, mind you. We tried that.” Mama chuckled. “You were just too smart for that, I guess.”

  She sat forward and drank her coffee again. “But you got better, and I got better, and business got better for your Papa, and Fannie got worse. That’s the truth of it.” Mama started to turn the saucer around again, sighed, and stopped, still holding it, though. “They read your Aunt Fannie’s will last week,” she said, staring at her hands. “She left money for you and Bobby to go to college, when the time comes. Not that we couldn’t have sent you, of course; it’ll just be easier now. We should be grateful for that.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, my voice a whisper.

  That startled Mama; I don’t think she expected me to say anything. She studied me for a second, and then got up and went to her apron, digging her hand in its pocket as she brought it back to the table with her. “She willed me her gold locket,” she said, pulling it out and putting it on the table in front of me. It spun when Mama put it down; I could see the delicate rose engraved on the front as it slowed. “Go ahead and open it,” Mama said over her shoulder as she hung the apron up again. “Your papa said I could go down to the store and pick a chain for it later in the week.”

  There were pictures of me and Bobby and Papa on the inside. “It’s pretty,” I said.

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Mama answered, sitting down again, this time putting a small wooden box in front of me, and setting three fat brass rollers on end next to it. The box was made of dark walnut, with nicks and dents worn smooth by age and polish; across the lid were inlaid two black stripes with red diamonds. Mama opened it, and delicious music came pouring out. I recognized Brahm’s Lullaby right away. “Fannie left this for you,” Mama said. “Your papa didn’t think you should have it until you were older; he said you might break it. You’ll be careful, won’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Take it then, and keep it safe,” she said. She showed me how to change the brass rollers so I could play four different songs. Their names were engraved on their insides: Beethoven’s Für Elise, Bach’s Sarabande, Mozart’s Minute Waltz, and the lullaby by Brahms. We both listened to the Bach piece play all the way through, the somber minor chords twinkling so you could hear all the notes in a row.

  Then it was over.

  “Timothy,” Mama said as I went upstairs to put the music box away, “I want you to keep away from Evans Cemetery for a while.”

  I leaned over the banister and looked at her, her figure a dim, hazy silhouette framed against the sunlit kitchen doorway. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Just for a while,” she said. “You can go back and visit your Aunt Fannie after the summer is over. It’s just that there will be other people going to visit her now, and I’d rather they didn’t find you there.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She smiled. “Maybe you and I can go together and take flowers to her grave sometime. Would you like that?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  We never went.

  * * *

  I gave up waiting for Mr. Beauchamps. But I still wasn’t getting along too well with Bobby and the rest of the gang, so instead of hanging out at the cemetery, I would spend time over at the old Robinson house. I was safe there; the rest of the kids thought it was haunted.

  It sat off by itself, on a hill along the road to Mariana Marsh, and there was a big dead gray tree in front of it with all the bark stripped off. None of the windows had any glass. Someone had tried to board them up a long time ago. But they had since been opened by brave adventurers like myself.

  It might have been painted white or yellow once. Most of the paint had peeled or worn off over the years, and the wood underneath was the same color as the tree in front—gray. There were still patches of nondescript color that clung tenaciously to the outside, in a futile attempt to defy the elements. The roof over the front porch sagged, and would probably fall off soon. The outside steps were gone.

  My favorite spot was up on the second floor, by the bay windows that faced south, toward town and Robinson’s Woods. I made it my room. On clear mornings I could see Mama hanging laundry out behind our house, or watch the cars drive into town and park in front of Papa’s store.

  Every time I was there, I would clean up the new collection of dead branches and litter that had blown in through the open windows. I fixed up an old rocking chair I found in the basement of the house, replacing the tattered upholstery with a burlap bag that said “50 Lbs Net, Parkinson’s Cabbage, Produce of U.S.A.” I hid Aunt Fannie’s music box in the window seat, and I could sit and rock and listen to it play while I looked out at town or over the woods. Or I could just read.

  It was Mr. Beauchamps who found me, two months after the funeral, and it was in the Robinson house. There was a light rain outside, and I was in my rocker, listening to the music box play Mozart’s waltz, thinking about having to go back to school again in a month and a half. The song ended, and I reached for the music box to start it over again.

  “That was real pretty, Timothy.”

  I turned around and looked, real quick, but I already knew it was him from the voice. He had his own rocker, put together out of a dozen pieces of twisted cane, painted red. He smiled at me, rocking back and forth.

  I wasn’t going to let him know he scared me. “Hello, Mr. Beauchamps.”

  “Where did you get that music box?”

  “From Aunt Fannie. She willed it to me.”

  “I see.” He stopped rocking, and dug his hand into one of his overall pockets. “Here. Try this.”

  He tossed something at me, which I caught, examined long enough to realize it was identical to the other brass cylinders that had come with the box, and then fitted it into the machin
e. It was labeled Chopin’s Nocturne. I turned the key as far as it would go, and then started it playing.

  I could hear Mr. Beauchamps humming softly with the melody. “How did you know Aunt Fannie was going to die?” I asked without looking at him.

  He stopped humming. “We’re all going to die,” he said huskily. “I told you that before.”

  “But how did you know when?”

  He signed wearily. “I just knew I had to dig the grave—that’s all there was to it.”

  I turned around and looked at him. “Do you know when everybody’s going to die?”

  He chuckled and relaxed, and his rocking chair started to squeak in time with the music. “Not everybody,” he said, after listening for several beats. “Strictly speaking, I’m just limited to the people in Evans. They managed to die without anybody knowing before I came, and will probably continue to do so after I’m gone.”

  “But how did you know to dig their graves?”

  “I just knew.” He chuckled again. “Take tomorrow, for instance.”

  “Somebody’s going to die tomorrow?”

  “Now, I didn’t say that. I’m just saying I got a grave to dig over in the Quarters Cemetery. I want you to meet me there and help.”

  “So somebody’s going to die over in Quarters! Who’s it going to be?”

  “I ain’t saying.”

  “It’s old Mammy Walker, isn’t it? She’s been sick for months.”

  “Nope.”

  “Sam DeLuth?”

  “Nope.”

  “Will Atkins?”

  “Nope.”

  I thought for a moment. “Jackson Hardich?”

  Mr. Beauchamps looked startled for a second, long enough to stop his chair. “I told you—I ain’t saying.” He fell back to rocking.

  “It is Jackson—isn’t it?” Everybody in Evans knew that Jackson Hardich was going to take on more trouble than he could handle one day. He was always picking fights out in the Quarters after dark, and there were several times recently when Sheriff Tucker had to be called to settle things down.

  “Maybe yes and maybe no,” Mr. Beauchamps said. “Whoever it is, it don’t change the fact that there’s a grave that’s got to be dug.” He leaned forward and squinted at me. “You going to be there tomorrow?”

  I looked outside at the rain and then back at Mr. Beauchamps. “I can’t come if it’s going to be raining.”

  “Oh, then there’s no problem. Tomorrow will be a fine day.”

  “If it is, I’ll be there.”

  “Good.”

  There was a hot white flash and a thunderclap that made my chest rumble from being so close, and when my ears stopped ringing, I turned to ask Mr. Beauchamps more about Jackson Hardich, but he was gone, along with his rocking chair. I remember smiling to myself, rocking back and forth vigorously, watching the rain come down harder, listening to the music. It had been fairly easy to trick Mr. Beauchamps into revealing who the grave was for. Now that I knew who the dead man was, I could go see him before he died.

  * * *

  It took all day to dig the grave, the same as before. And it was a Saturday, the same as before. But the Quarters Cemetery wasn’t as nice as the Evans Cemetery. The grave markers were smaller, most of them made out of wood, many of them cracked and gray and slowly falling over. There were fewer flowers, fewer trees, and the work was harder. I had to help Mr. Beauchamps pull up half a dozen huge stones before we were through; my hands were rubbed raw in spots from it.

  It wasn’t a bad day, though. We had our lunch together and fed biscuit crumbs to a family of meadowlarks who sang for us later. As a surprise, Mr. Beauchamps brought harmonicas for both of us; once I got through his “brief demonstration of the proper technique for the mouth organ,” I was even able to keep up with him on a couple of the songs we had only sung last time. He said I was a quick learner, and taught me to play Chopin’s Nocturne, just like my music box, though nowhere near as fancy, and with none of the right harmonies.

  When we finished the digging, Mr. Beauchamps stood in the cool afternoon shadows that spilled into the bottom of the grave. He smiled. “This is good work, Timothy,” he said. “Good, honest work. You should be proud of it.” He grunted as he climbed out on his pickax, laboriously settling himself into a sitting position with his feet still dangling in Jackson’s grave. “You go home now and eat a good dinner,” he said. Then he leaned over and poked at me with his finger. “Take yourself a hot bath too. Hot, mind you.” And he tapped his nose. “And you soak in it. We wouldn’t want you to be stiff and sore like some old man before your time.”

  I left him while he was still laughing about that. But I didn’t go home. Instead I headed for Potter’s Drugstore, on the edge of the Quarters, to spy on Jackson Hardich.

  He worked there for Mr. Potter most days, and on Saturdays he and his friends would meet there before taking off for the evening’s festivities. Potter’s was also the scene of the last two fights Jackson got into.

  When I got there, Sheriff Tucker’s squad car and an ambulance were there before me, pulled up crooked against the curb, their lights flashing, red and amber spots dancing up and down the outsides of the dingy frame houses huddled together on Sultana Street, the power lines off in the distance winking with an orange glow.

  I hid by the gas station garage across the street, behind a pile of old tires. Potter’s was closed, but there were lights on in the barbershop next door. A small crowd had begun to gather—mostly older black men, dressed in dark gray suits and hats, standing around the way people did at Aunt Fannie’s funeral—when Sheriff Tucker came out of the alley behind Potter’s and told everybody to get on home. Right behind him came two ambulance attendants carrying a litter with a white sheet-wrapped body on it. Whoever it was, it was plain to see he was dead. But I had to know who.

  That was when I became aware I wasn’t the only one hiding behind the garage.

  I couldn’t see his face. All I could tell was he was black, he was watching the attendants put the body into the ambulance, and there was a dark stain spreading high up on his left shirt sleeve, almost by his shoulder.

  “You killed him—didn’t you?”

  “Who’s that?” He whirled around, holding a knife in his right hand, his face all shiny with sweat. It was Ronnie Johnson. He couldn’t see me.

  “You killed Jackson Hardich.”

  “No!”

  “You knifed him.”

  “No! It ain’t true!”

  “He made you fight him, and you stabbed him in the middle of it. I know it.”

  Ronnie began to move toward me, crouched. “You can’t say that. You don’t know nothing. Who’s back there?”

  “You’re going to die for it too!”

  Ronnie stood straight up. “No! He ain’t dead!”

  “He is!”

  “You stop right where you are, boy!” It was Sheriff Tucker. He’d spotted Ronnie from across the street.

  Ronnie took off down Sultana Street, running as fast as he could. The sheriff was right behind him.

  They found him guilty. I knew that before anyone else did. Mr. Beauchamps dug Ronnie Johnson’s grave while the jury was still deliberating.

  * * *

  As I got older, I got better at guessing whose grave we would be digging. And by the time I was in high school, I could get a sense of when Mr. Beauchamps was about to show up as well as who it was we’d have to go gravedigging for. He paid me for my help when I was in high school; he said I was doing my share of a man’s work.

  Bobby went off to Raleigh for college, and came back with a degree in business and a wife. Her name was Mary Sue Alders—Mary Sue Evans after she married Bobby. They got themselves a house in town, and Bobby started helping Papa with the business, supervising the clerks and keeping the inventory.

  I was a loner all through high school, and the kids were happy to leave me to myself. I would watch the people in Evans, waiting; when I felt the time was right, I would go out to the old Ro
binson house and meet Mr. Beauchamps.

  There came a time, though, when I was a senior, a month away from graduating, when he showed up at school to find me. I was out behind the gymnasium, skipping pebbles across the lagoon. He stepped out suddenly from behind one of the willow trees.

  “Hello, Timothy.”

  I looked around to see if any of the other kids were in sight. “What are you doing here?”

  He walked down to the shore, his big mud-crusted boots making the gravel crunch, stooped, picked up a stone, tossed it at the lagoon, and watched it skim the distance to the far shore. He looked pleased with himself. “Fancy that,” he said, “and at my age too.” He looked down at me where I was sitting. “I’ll need your help tomorrow, Timothy.”

  I stood up, beat the dust out of my jeans, and then looked him square in the eyes. “Who’s it going to be this time?”

  He chuckled. “You won’t guess it. I can guarantee that.”

  “Well, then tell me the cemetery.”

  “Evans. Over by the oak trees.”

  “Evans. That means it’s somebody white.” I thought for a moment. “Couldn’t be. Old Mrs. Forester is the sickest one of the lot, and even she’s doing better, according to Doc Morrison.”

  “Ain’t Mrs. Forester—you’re right about that.”

  “All right. You just wait and see, I’ll have it figured out by tomorrow morning when we start.”

  He took his engineer’s hat off and held it over his heart, like the flag was passing by, and sticking out his jaw defiantly, said, “You won’t neither, Timothy Evans. I know it.”

  I stayed awake past midnight, going through the phone book, trying to figure out who it could be. I made lists and tore them all up. I even called the two motels in town, to see if there were any elderly visitors I had somehow not heard about. In the end, I decided to give up graciously, and wait and see who was going to die, just like any other normal person.

  The next morning, Mr. Beauchamps knew I hadn’t figured it out, but he didn’t say anything. He was more cheerful than usual, though.

  It was a good gravedigging day: the sky was a clear, bright, cloudless blue; it was warm, but not so warm as to be uncomfortable; there was the tiniest of breezes that played with the grass tops as it came blowing across the cemetery to cool us off. Mr. Beauchamps let me do most of the work. He said if I had it in me, I ought to do it—like singing a song, building a house, or dancing.