Symphony - [Millennium Quartet 01]

by Charles L. Grant

  He felt the roughness under his brow, at his knees, at his stomach; he felt the pulling at his shoulders, at his waist, at his back.

  Slowly he drew his arms in, and pulled his legs up until he knelt, hands flat and loose on his thighs as he settled back on his heels. He looked up at the brass cross on its brass stand on the white altar, knowing that formal prayer wasn’t needed, wasn’t right. The Lord knew his thoughts, and there would be a response. Not a burning bush, or a tornado of fire, or a great sweeping wind. It would be in an inescapable sureness, and if it didn’t come now, it would come some other time.

  It didn’t come now.

  He smiled a little, cocked an eyebrow, and realized that he wasn’t alone in the church.

  A careful turn until he was seated, knees drawn up, hands wrapped around them.

  Helen sat in the first pew, on the aisle.

  “You know,” she said, her voice trembling a little as if she wasn’t sure she should speak, “I don’t think of Episcopalians behaving like this.” A vague gesture at him, and at the altar.

  He shrugged, just a little. She was clearly uncomfortable, but he wasn’t sure why.

  “Are you all right?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. It kind of threw me a bit.”

  “It would have scared the sh—heck out of me.”

  Their voices were soft, not quite whispering.

  “It did, believe me.”

  She nodded toward the cross. “So what did you find out?”

  A quick scratch through his hair as he shifted to sit Indian-style. “I found out that it’s easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle, than for a fella like me to scare off a few thousand hungry bees.”

  When she smiled, he smiled back. “Aren’t you supposed to be working?”

  “Rina’s covering.” She looked away. “Todd said I’d better find you before I burned the diner down.” And added quickly, “Lots of people are looking for you, you know. Reed and Cora want to tell you something, but you weren’t at the house. I guess they tried here, but the doors were locked.”

  “Oh? So how did you get in?”

  “Old locks, Casey.” She looked back, shy but pleased. “I have a way with them.”

  He laughed and shook his head, then swung himself to his feet, slightly taken aback when she leaned away from him at the move and recovered badly by trying to get too quickly to her feet. She sat with a thud, tried again, but by that time he was beside her, holding out his hand.

  When she took it, he pulled gently.

  “You Southern boys know all the moves, don’t you?” She glanced down at his feet. “ ‘Course, you wear a dress and forget your shoes, it kind of lacks something, you know?”

  He pulled her into the aisle and guided her toward the office. “Stick around while I change. I could use the company.”

  Five minutes later, candles extinguished and cassock in the wardrobe, they left through the side door. The night was muggy, the air had weight, and he couldn’t help a check of the belfry as they walked toward Black Oak Road.

  A bat darted over the roof.

  Down the street, music from the bar sounded dull and unhappy.

  The streetlamp on the corner sputtered, and shadows became black lightning.

  He stopped before they reached the fall of the light, and slid his hands into his pockets. His head lifted slightly, and he sniffed, smelling honeysuckle and dead grass, blacktop, and something else. His nostrils wrinkled. He couldn’t tell what it was, but it wasn’t very pleasant.

  Helen remained beside him. “Kind of like an oil fire.”

  His surprise was a quick low whistle.

  “I’ve been smelling it all afternoon. I thought it was something in the kitchen.”

  “Anybody complain?”

  “Not that I heard.”

  She moved to stand in front of him, smooth and unhurried, as if they’d been dancing. They weren’t exactly in the dark, but he couldn’t see her face, not until she looked up at him and he saw the tears in her eyes.

  “What?” he whispered.

  She shook her head violently, and just as violently fell against him, gripping him tightly around the waist, cheek against his chest, tears against his shirt. His hands touched her waist, slid up to her shoulders, slid across and held her close. He could smell the warmth of her hair, the warmth of her neck where her collar pulled away. His eyes closed. His embrace tightened briefly before the hands slipped slowly back to her waist.

  “Don’t ever do that again,” she said, still holding him, still crying.

  “Which?” he asked lightly. “The bee thing or the church thing?”

  “The going-away thing.” She shifted to her other cheek. “They ... they think maybe you’ve gone.”

  “They?’’ It came out before he could stop it, and when she didn’t answer, he said, “I guess I’d better show my face, then.”

  With her arms still around him, she leaned back. “Aren’t you mad at them? Todd, whoever?”

  “Why?”

  “For thinking you’d leave for something stupid like that?”

  “I don’t think they’d think I left for good, do you?”

  Tears on her cheeks, none left in her eyes. “That’s not the point. Mel thinks you scared yourself.”

  His chest and stomach jumped in silent laughter. “I did. Believe me, I did.”

  She sniffed, and as she released him to wipe her nose, he sidestepped and kept one arm around her waist, walking her back up the street, through the gate and across the grass behind the church. He sensed her question, and only signaled with his arm, heading for the graveyard’s low stone wall. Once there, he lifted her to the top, and settled himself easily beside her, the graves at their back.

  Clasped his hands in his lap and spoke to the ground.

  * * * *

  My daddy worked for the railroad. Signalman in a tower. Not very exciting, but it was fun to say he worked with trains. We got free rides, Momma and me. We had to. He made no real money, and Momma had to take in washing now and then just to be sure we got fed. He died when I was fifteen. I hated him, you know. We went to one of those tinny-organ, no-fans churches in east Tennessee. Lots of hollering and damning of souls and no fun at all. I went to the funeral, and that’s the last time I went to church.

  Classic case of blaming God, I know that now. I hate to say it, but sometimes I still do. When I miss him. Which is just about every day I breathe.

  Momma couldn’t do anything for me, or with me. I walked out of school that October—he died in July—and never went back there, either. I fixed cars and swept floors, even thought about joining the Army, just to get the hell away. Naturally, I suppose, I got to drinking, and smoking a little dope, some minor breaking-and-entering, a whole lot of fights.

  But I had this dream, you see—my idols were Waylon and Merle and Willie, the whole outlaw gang. I was going to write me a few songs, get me some money, and build my Momma a big mansion on the banks of the Tennessee.

  What an idiot.

  By the time I was twenty, I’d been in and out of jail so many times, I could have walked through the routine blindfolded. Couldn’t play the guitar worth a lick, either. My songs were all jumbled, most of them so filled with self-pity, I’m surprised I wasn’t lynched. In and out of Nashville, Memphis, cursing the fools who couldn’t see my God-given natural talent.

  That winter I went home for the first time in three years.

  Momma wasn’t there.

  Neighbors told me she’d been taken sick and was in the hospital. They wouldn’t let me in there, either. They wouldn’t believe who I was.

  Damn cold, too, that winter. I hitched and walked in any direction I could find a road. I hadn’t eaten for three, four days except for a squirrel and a rabbit I caught with my bare hands. So cold and bone weary, I tried to rob a food mart with my bare hands too. You know that part. Three years in prison. I was supposed to serve ten on account of my record.

  But this man, the chaplain,
I don’t know what he saw, but he saw something, and I kind of liked him, so we’d talk pretty much three, four times a week. He was the one who told me, as a singer I was worse than the Johnstown Flood. I believed him because he was right. And when he managed my release, good behavior and his promise, I lived with him and his wife for a year, came downstairs one morning and said I wanted to be a preacher.

  I think I near killed him, but that night I heard him crying.

  He and his friends got me through what I needed to get into seminary, paid my way there, made sure I knew exactly what I was getting into. A pretty late start, I guess, but amazing, you know? Dirt poor and bad-tempered, foul-mouthed and randy, I got through and was ordained.

  The year after that, I buried Momma, and I buried him and his wife, murdered in their beds while I was at the beach.

  North was about the only place I could think of to go, the bishop agreed, and here I am.

  Sitting on a graveyard wall, wondering.

  Just... wondering.

  * * * *

  “Wondering what?”

  He slid off the wall and stood in front of her; they were almost eye-to-eye.

  His mouth tucked up at one corner. “Wondering what a lady like you would do if I ripped off all her clothes, right here, and made love to her on someone’s grave, in there.”

  She glared. “For starters, she’d slap your face clear around to the other side of your head.”

  When he stepped back, she grabbed his wrist. “Then, when she got your attention, she’d probably let you,” and she kissed him.

  Salt, and heat, her fingers tangled in his hair, legs wrapped around his waist as he took her off the wall and tried not to crush her when he folded her close.

  The kiss broke, and she leaned back, her expression as dazed as he imagined his was.

  “Lord,” she said. Then she put her fingers on his lips, and in a whisper, “No cracks. Not a word.”

  She kissed him again.

  * * * *

  3

  Mabel shook her head in disgust. “It’s them terrorists from the Middle East, that’s what it is.” She stabbed a finger at the newspaper spread on the counter. “I mean, what else could it be? Motels blowing up, gas stations.” She shook her head in disgust. “Hundred-twenty people dead. Jesus, a damn war zone.”

  Todd, from his position in the serving gap, glanced at the booth just behind her, where the Palmers sat with Moss and Enid. “Maybe it’s the UFOs, Mabe.” His face gave away nothing.

  “Never.” She didn’t look up, reading the columns between a series of five photographs.

  “Why?” Rina asked. She had a Boston cream pie in front of her, slicing it for Mrs. Racine’s late night snack.

  “Too obvious.” Mabel sounded distracted, scowling at the pictures, running a finger down the print. “You don’t go hunting by blowing up the damn woods.”

  Todd raised his eyebrows. “Hunting?” Another exchange with the booth, especially with Moss, who at least had the sense to look embarrassed. “I thought you said they were just studying us. You know”—and he started to sing—”getting to know us, getting to know all about us.’’

  She didn’t answer.

  Just as well, he decided; whatever had happened in Maryland was horrible enough without him making fun. But she was such an easy target, and his self-control was so lousy. Although he supposed taking potshots was a lot better than listening to them talking about the reverend all the time. A short-lived phenomenon, it turned out to be. A mild dose of heat stroke was the perfect answer to a lot of puzzling questions, and it seemed most folks accepted it.

  The trouble was, he had been there, and he still wasn’t sure.

  And he wished to hell he knew where Casey was.

  “Can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs,” she said at last, still trying to match the reports with the photos.

  Moss held up his coffee cup to Rina. “Maybe they just wanted to test their subsonic death-ray.”

  Todd covered his mouth with one hand.

  Mabel turned slowly. “Don’t make fun.”

  He lifted a hand. “Not making fun, Mabe honey, honest. Just making a suggestion.”

  Todd couldn’t see her face, but he could see Moss look away, abruptly intent on watching Rina pour him a fresh cup. He had no idea what that man saw in Mabel Jonsen, but whatever she had, it was certainly powerful. Maybe just as powerful as the grip Bobby had laid on him, subtle as a spider’s web and just as strong. You don’t even know it’s there until it’s too late.

  Tessa, in shorts and halter-top, walked in just as Enid said, “Have any of you ever considered the fact that this might be God’s hand?”

  “Terrorists,” Mabel insisted, swiveling back to her paper. “Must be some kind of secret government installation out there. The CIA’s always screwing around with things.”

  Tessa slid onto a stool well away from Mabel, and asked for a tuna sandwich. Todd noticed she didn’t look at him, didn’t lean over the way she used to, making sure he could tell that her top wasn’t padded with anything that hadn’t grown there on its own. In fact, she looked as if she hadn’t been sleeping very well—her young face looked a decade older, her neck betrayed tension.

  Shit. Bobby must have said something. Shit.

  “God,” Enid persisted, ignoring Mabel, concentrating on the Palmers.

  Sissy smiled politely. “I’m not going to argue with you, Enid. It could be.”

  Moss shifted into the corner, leaning against the window sill. “Enid, no offense, but sometimes you sound like one of those born-again types, you know? Holy rolling and all that stuff.”

  Oh, damn, Todd thought; don’t get her started.

  “I mean, I didn’t think Episcopalians were like that, you know? Case sure isn’t.”

  “Reverend Chisholm,” she answered stiffly, “is a Godfearing man who has his own way. It does not mean he does not see the Hand of the Lord in terrible retribution. When he returns from his pilgrimage, he will be the first to tell you that.”

  Moss gaped at her.

  Todd wandered away, absently took down his guitar, perched on a stool he kept near the door, and quietly strummed a few chords. He was pretty mediocre, bordering on the awful, and knew it, yet seldom failed to soothe himself while he played. His mind roamed as his fingers did; it was almost like dreaming.

  “Seems to me,” he heard Moss say dryly, “if God was gonna do something like that, it’d be a big place. New York. L.A. Make a better impression, if you know what I mean. Like Sodom and that other place, see? Stuff like that there down in Maryland, it ain’t gonna be on the news but a couple of days, then it’s gone, something else in its place.”

  He couldn’t hear Enid’s response over Rina’s rattling cups and saucers, or the noise Reed made when he came in with Nate and Cora, laughing, hooting, giving Rina a hard time the way friends do. He glanced at the wall clock by the walk-in freezer and groaned. One hour to official closing. Why did everyone always pick one hour to official closing before deciding they wanted something at the Moonglow they could just as easily get at home?

  And as long as he was griping, what was he going to do about Tessa? He hadn’t thought their sack time had been anything more than an occasional bout of healthy lust. Seems he was wrong. Seems the girl had developed a bad case of he’s mine, leave him alone.

  He groaned again when Rina smacked the order bell. Every dime toward the retirement fund, he reminded himself as he hung up the guitar; every dime toward settling down on the porch and letting someone else do all the work for a change. Be nice; it would really be nice.

  He grabbed the order from its spike just as Moss told Enid she was, no offense, out of her mind. When she replied coldly that at least she had a mind to be out of, Mabel looked up from her newspaper and said, “Todd, as long as you’re making those kids some burgers, you think you can whip up one of those minute-steak-and-potato things you do?”

  He wanted to tell her to forget it, that burger
s and nothing else were his speed this time of night, but Tessa decided she wanted one too, forget the tuna sandwich.

  Every dime for the fund.

  Several more people wandered in, grinning and laughing at something that had happened in the Yankee game just finished.

  The noise level rose.

  Ozzie, awake for a change, turned on his stool and suggested to Vinia Leary that she’d better reopen the pharmacy, lots of people going to need some Alka-Seltzer or something, what with all this grease going down. Vinia, mock-primly patting her beehive blonde hair, suggested he buy soap instead, industrial strength, and the booths filled with good-natured laughter.