by Tim Pratt
Lindsay was coming up the stairs as Marzi went down. “No, no, don’t go,” she said. “I have to tell you what happened in class today.”
“Oh, joy. Tales from the ivory tower of academia.”
Lindsay stuck out her tongue. “I get just as much paint on my clothes as you do, working girl. You’ll want to hear this, believe me. Save me a seat,” she said, pointing to the mostly full patio.
Marzi thought longingly of her pencils, her paper, and her drafting table, but she nodded. She and Lindsay had trouble synching their schedules and getting together during the school year; Lindsay was still on academic time, while Marzi had been a civilian for two years and had a somewhat erratic work schedule to boot. Marzi expected to be at home alone all evening anyway, so she could be social now. Her sandstone savage would wait.
Lindsay returned a few minutes later with a pint of Guinness and a cup of tea, and set the latter ceremoniously before Marzi. “So you met Jonathan,” she said.
“Who?”
Lindsay rolled her eyes. “The new boy. The one who’s getting Pigeonholed. I wouldn’t mind if he pigeonholed me. But boys just lead to trouble.”
“Oh! You mean the guy in the Circus Room? With the black hair and the sorta sunken eyes?”
“Sunken? They’re dark and mysterious and haunted, hinting at a dangerous past, Marzipan.”
Marzi sipped her tea. “Duly noted. So I met him. Glad we got past that awkward first step. So what’s the story you have to tell? The sordid tale of a pop quiz gone wrong?”
Lindsay shook her head. “I was in class this afternoon, the class I have with Beej? We were all working, painting with oils—I hate oils—and Beej just flipped out. He fell off his stool and put his arms over his head and started yelling ‘Earthquake!’ And we all stopped, you know, Dr. Payne, too, and sorta paid attention to the world around us for a few seconds, and there was no earthquake, but Beej kept yelling. Dr. Payne threw him out of class, and Beej went stumbling out of the room like he was drunk or something, like the ground really was shaking under him.” She shook her head. “Creepy. And he smells weird lately, too—weirder than usual—like ashes and old garbage and stuff. You saw him yesterday, you know how he is, right? I worry about his mental health. Maybe he should drop out of school for a while, get some help—” She stopped talking and winced. “Sorry, Marzi. I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s cool,” Marzi said, dredging up a smile. “It was a long time ago. Taking the withdrawal was good for me. I needed to do it.”
“I kinda wish you’d come back to school afterward,” Lindsay said, looking down into her beer.
Marzi just nodded. They’d had this conversation before, and it never went anywhere new. For Lindsay, school was important: She needed the structure, and enjoyed the instruction. But Marzi tended to think that the only reason to get an art degree was to get a job teaching art—welcome to the closed loop of the humanities. Lindsay, obviously, disagreed.
“Anyway,” Marzi said. “That thing with Beej yesterday.”
Lindsay nodded. “Yeah, you said he was screaming? But there really was an earthquake, that time.”
“Only after he was screaming, by coincidence.” Marzi sighed. “Maybe next time I see Beej, I’ll suggest he see a counselor at school or something.”
“Me, too,” Lindsay said. “We’ll be concerned members of the community. He’s a talented guy—I hate to see him fall apart.” She sipped her Guinness. “So anyway. I told Jonathan to come out and join us once he finished drawing.” She grinned, impish.
“Matchmaker, matchmaker. Why don’t you hit on the new boy? And don’t tell me you’ve sworn off boys—I saw you making out with Michael Baker just two weeks ago.”
“A drunken fling,” Lindsay said with a wave of her hand. “Too much red wine and too little discernment. No more than a grope in a corner. It only served to confirm my all-girl resolve. Besides, I don’t need romance in my life. I’ve got someone.”
“Oh?”
“Alice Belle,” Lindsay said.
Marzi widened her eyes. “Alice?” Alice was a semiregular at Genius Loci, one of the bikers who frequented the place, mostly on weekends. She wore leather and kept her hair cropped short, and she had a tattoo of one of Edward Gorey’s Gashlycrumb Tinies on her forearm.
“I am being fully initiated into the mysteries of Sapphic love,” Lindsay said, deadpan, and Marzi burst out laughing. “I’ve never been all that experienced with girls,” Lindsay went on. “Just a little making out here and there. But Alice . . . Wow. Just, wow. She’s a fire-dancer, did you know? She practiced in her backyard last night, and I watched. It was amazing; she’s so graceful, so all-in-control—and not just when she’s dancing. I had so much fun with her, I thought about you, and how much fun you’re not having. When was the last time you did more than sleep in bed?”
“A lady has her secrets,” Marzi said. It had been a long time, actually, and the last time hadn’t been very good, a romp with an old lover who was better in her memory than he was in her bed. “But I can sleep with Hendrix any time I want.”
Lindsay giggled.
Jonathan appeared in the doorway, carrying a black messenger bag over his shoulder and a coffee cup in his hand. So much for working, she thought, but the conversation was pretty effectively purging her mind of bad dreams, so it was okay.
Jonathan came down the stairs to their table, putting down his cup and pulling up a chair. Lindsay put her elbows on the table and set her chin in her hands, blinking at Jonathan prettily.
I bet she’ll flirt with the doctor on her deathbed, Marzi thought, with something like admiration.
Jonathan held out his hand to Marzi, and in the process knocked over Lindsay’s half-full pint glass. Guinness splattered everywhere, and Lindsay leapt back to keep from being soaked. Jonathan grimaced, said, “Shit, I’m sorry,” and wiped at the spill with a napkin. Marzi caught Lindsay’s eye and silently mouthed “Cool, huh?” Lindsay shrugged expressively. She could shrug like no one else; her shrugs had nuances. This shrug meant, roughly, “Sure, but what do I know?”
Jonathan sopped up the rest of the spill. “Shit. I’m a klutz. I’ll buy you another one.”
“Deal,” Lindsay said. “But don’t expect me to put out afterward.”
Jonathan just laughed. So he was at least that cool. If Lindsay had said something like that to Beej or Denis, they would have blushed at the least, and possibly run away. Jonathan went back into the café.
“So now you’ve met him twice,” Lindsay said. “Not much of a first impression, I guess, and an even worse second impression, but they say the third time’s the charm.”
“Don’t hold your breath, Lindsay love.”
“He’s just nervous because he’s into you,” she said. “You know how guys get around pretty girls. You make him all fumble-fingered.”
“Then why doesn’t he knock stuff over when he talks to you alone? Or is that a facet of your relationship you haven’t told me about?”
“No, he’s cool around me, but I’m not pretty.”
“Lindsay—”
“I’m not being down on myself. It’s true. I’m not pretty. I’m cute. I have round cheeks. I’d look good in gingham. I could do television commercials, hold puppies and tell people to buy things, but I’m not pretty, just cute. I’m the best-friend-girl, the one guys talk to about the women they’re in love with.” She shrugged with an air of gracious resignation. “I’m used to it. Though it’s been a while since any guys have come mooning to me about you. Maybe I miss the secondhand attention, did you ever think of that? Even if I have sworn off boys.” She grinned, then glanced at the stairs. “Where’s my beer? I tell you, the service in this place . . .”
“Whoa, what’s that?” Marzi said, pointing toward the street. A car had just pulled into one of the metered parallel spaces in front of the café. It was a hatchback, but Marzi couldn’t determine the make, model, or even color, as the car was covered entirely in thick mud, except fo
r a rough oval of mostly clear glass on the windshield. “Did they drive through a monsoon or something to get here?”
“A monsoon would’ve been cleaner,” Lindsay said. “It looks more like they drove through the middle of a mudslide.”
The car door opened, and the driver climbed out, just as mud-spattered as the car. Marzi couldn’t even tell if she was wearing clothes; only the shape of hips and breasts identified her as a woman.
“Maybe she’s some kind of performance artist,” Marzi said. The woman was disturbingly familiar—she reminded Marzi of a minor character from her comic. In that story line, the rainmaker Charles Hatfield nearly destroyed San Diego with a rainstorm—something that had actually happened, historically, though Marzi had her doubts that Hatfield was really responsible for the storm. One of the women who died in the flood became a ghost, and in her desperate wish for flesh and substance she fashioned a body for herself out of mud. Bits of the mud-ghost kept sloughing off, or drying up and flaking away, and she was eventually dissolved in the Colorado River, where she remained, becoming a sardonic, disembodied oracle of sorts—as well as one of Rangergirl’s only friends.
But that was a comic book, and this was real life. This was no ghost, but an actual woman, walking around covered in mud. Her face was daubed with white clay, making her resemble a figure from some African tribal ceremony—she had the face of a skull.
“That’s Jane,” Lindsay said. “Holy shit.”
Of course. Lindsay knew everybody. “Who?”
“Jane Canarray. She was the TA in my psych class last semester. She’s brilliant.”
“Does she often cover herself in mud?”
“Marzi, I’ve never even seen this woman with split ends or ragged fingernails. This . . . I can’t believe it. She used to go out with Denis, I heard. Do you think Mr. Clean Freak would go out with somebody who covers herself in mud?” Lindsay spoke quietly, watching Jane. For her part, Jane seemed content to stand by her open car door and gaze down the length of the street.
“Maybe she’s performing a psychological experiment.”
“Maybe,” Lindsay said doubtfully. “I know there’s an Abnormal Psych teacher who makes his students do publicly deviant things to, like, teach them about cultural prejudices. But the students usually just talk really loud in elevators or stand on corners yelling about flying saucers. This is above and beyond.”
Jonathan appeared, beer in hand. “Huh,” he said, looking at the mud-covered woman. “That’s unusual.”
“Welcome to Santa Cruz,” Lindsay said, and then the mud-covered woman started yelling.
“HERE!” she shouted, flinging out her arm to point at the café. “This is the seat of her power! This is the place of her imprisonment! She must be released!” Jane’s eyes scanned the deck; everyone was staring at her now. Her gaze locked on Lindsay, Marzi, and Jonathan.
“Hey, Jane,” Lindsay said. “Are you protesting something?”
“Imprisonment,” Jane spat, mud flying from her lips. She stalked around the front of her car, dropping off bits of mud as she came. “My goddess is here, trapped.”
“This isn’t about boycotting Brazilian coffee, is it?” Lindsay said. “Because Genius Loci complied with that, like, ages ago.”
“You,” Jane said, pointing at Marzi. “You stand before the door to her prison. You prevent the goddess from bestowing her blessings upon the world.” Jane came up the steps, still pointing unerringly at Marzi. “Why, sister? Why don’t you embrace the dark goddess of the earth?”
“I’m an atheist, sorry,” Marzi said, backing away. Jane’s hands were curled into muddy claws. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You’re tracking mud all over the deck, and I’m the one who has to clean it up.”
“It will all be mud, soon. Buried in mud.” Jane swung her head balefully, her gaze resting at last on Jonathan. She smiled, and there was mud on her teeth. “Mud in your heart, boy. You’ll piss mud, shit mud, and spurt mud when you come.” She flicked her fingers at him, getting a spatter of mud on his shirt. He looked down at the smudge, then back up at Jane, meeting her eyes, and Marzi felt a nasty crackle of tension between them, sort of the opposite of good chemistry, and she wondered if Jonathan was going to do something violent.
Instead, he picked up a napkin and dabbed slowly at his shirt, never taking his eyes from Jane’s, not flinching when she took a step closer and thrust her face close to his. The way he stared at her, Jane might have been an insect—one with a stinger, perhaps, but nothing to worry much about. Marzi was impressed; her own heart was beating in 6/8 time. Jane began to hiss like a teakettle just hitting its boil.
“That’s enough!” Marzi said. “I’m not asking, Jane. I’m telling you. Leave.” She hesitated. The next thing she wanted to say wasn’t strictly within her authority, but Hendrix would back her up. “You’re banned from Genius Loci. For life.”
Jane pulled back from Jonathan and looked at Marzi. “For my life, or your life? Because your life . . .” She laughed, a rich, liquid sound. “That’s nearly over now.” Jane lunged at her, fingers hooked and clawlike.
Marzi crouched and brought up her hands defensively. Jane crashed into Marzi’s arms and reached for her throat, trying to strangle her. Marzi knocked Jane’s arms aside, then put both of her own hands flat on Jane’s chest to shove her away.
Marzi’s hands sank into mud up to the wrists, deeper than should have been possible, and she didn’t feel flesh underneath. She tried to pull away, but her hands wouldn’t come loose—if anything, she felt as if her hands were being pulled in, absorbed by Jane’s body. Lindsay and Jonathan grabbed Jane’s shoulders and tried to pull her away, but all they got for their trouble were hands full of mud. Jonathan frowned, as if doing a tricky bit of math in his head, and threw a short, vicious punch at Jane’s shoulder. Bits of mud flew off on impact, but Jane didn’t seem to notice at all, grinning into Marzi’s face, her teeth like tiny white tombstones. She reached for Marzi’s throat again.
Fuck, Marzi thought, and threw herself backward, away from Jane. Her hands still didn’t come free, so she pulled Jane with her, twisting Jane against her hip and smashing her into the table. Jane hit the tabletop and shouted—it sounded more like surprise than pain. Marzi wrenched her hands out of Jane’s chest, then pushed the table over, thankful Hendrix had settled for chaining the tables to the railing rather than bolting them down. The table fell against the railing and Jane rolled off the surface, over the rail, and fell a few feet, landing facedown on the sidewalk.
Jane scrambled to her feet, snarling, face twisted in fury. Marzi picked up Lindsay’s untouched pint of Guinness and threw it, glass and all, into Jane’s face. Jane shrieked and batted the glass away, where it broke on the sidewalk. The beer streaked Jane’s face, and the mud ran, but it didn’t expose her skin—just more, and darker, mud. “I said, you’re banned for life,” Marzi said. She picked up a napkin and began to wipe Jane’s mud from her hands.
Jane looked at her for a long moment, then turned her gaze to Jonathan, and to Lindsay, as if marking them. “I’ll be back. The goddess—”
“Shut up!” someone shouted from the deck. A couple of other people took up the catcall, and then everyone was shouting “Piss off!” or “Get lost!” or, funnily, “Go back to the commune, hippie!” Everyone except Marzi, Lindsay, and Jonathan, who looked at one another, bemused. Jane jerked her head around, flinching as the people shouted at her. She got back into her filthy car without another word. The people on the deck began clapping. Someone threw half a muffin at Jane’s car, and it stuck in the mud on the roof, looking like a fine detail in a surrealist painting. Jane drove off, weaving a little in her lane, and took a sharp right onto Sandalwood Street and out of sight.
“Should we call the cops or something?” Jonathan asked.
Marzi hesitated, then shook her head. Talking to cops was a lot of trouble, and they had a way of making her feel guilty, even if she’d done nothing wrong. “I’m not hurt or anything.
And I already banned her for life, right? If she comes back, I’ll call them.” She turned to Lindsay. “I guess it’s my turn to buy you a beer now.”
“I could use one,” she said. “Let’s have it inside, though. That way, the crazy people will have to come all the way up the stairs in order to attack us.”
Down in His Boots
* * *
Denis Reardon woke in his clean white bed and looked at his smooth ceiling. His jaw hurt from grinding his teeth all night, and he had half-moons in his palms from clenching his fists and digging his fingernails in while he slept. He’d had the same dream he always had, lately: the dream of the machine that grinds.
He sat up in bed, scowling at the alarm clock. It was already two o’clock in the afternoon. Denis had stayed up all night, hoping a disruption in his sleep schedule would knock loose whatever had gotten stuck in his head, the needle in the repetitive groove that made him dream again and again of a smooth chrome machine rolling over the landscape, grinding every obstruction down to glassy nothing . . .
But it hadn’t worked. Nothing had, not even sleeping pills. He had no choice but to live with the dream.
He could not possibly live with the dream.
Denis’s boots were still by the door, still muddy. He’d gone on wearing the filthy boots since Jane died, trying to forget they were dirty, sometimes almost succeeding. To clean the boots would be tantamount to an admission of wrongdoing. Denis Reardon did not have muddy boots. Denis Reardon did not do the sorts of things that led to muddy boots.
But he had done such things, and now Jane was dead. He was even—if one interpreted events in a certain light—somewhat responsible for her death. He was certainly responsible for keeping that death a secret.
Denis went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, but his hands shook so badly that he couldn’t fill the pot. He put the heels of his hands against his forehead and breathed slowly in and out nine times. The number nine always seemed to soothe him—counting to it, or repeating actions nine times.