The Sisterhood

by Juanita Coulson

  The Sisterhood

  Juanita Coulson

  © Juanita Coulson, 1990

  Juanita Coulson has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published as ‘Star Sister’ in 1990 by Ballantine Books.

  This edition published in 2015 by Venture Press, an imprint of Endeavour Press Ltd.

  To Bruce Coulson, who has been very patient and knows these things must be done delicately, or you break the spell.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 1

  TRAFFIC was awful, a gut-tightening, brake-riding, 70 miles-per-hour madhouse — except for an occasional slow-moving vehicle which threatened to cause a massive pileup. Renee leaned forward and gripped the steering wheel more firmly, cursing the mess under her breath. As she did, an import with a broken or nonexistent muffler pulled out recklessly, almost sideswiping her aging Chevy as he zipped into the passing lane.

  “Man driver!” Renee yelled, adding several pithier comments on the driver’s character. A waste of breath. He was far ahead of her already. She couldn’t even vent her rage by throwing him “the bird”; he’d never see it.

  Calm down, she thought. The object is to stay alert and stay alive. I have to concentrate on the job at hand.

  Difficult. Her thoughts kept drifting to that afternoon’s hearings at Metro Council. For several long hours there, Renee had feared that, too, was going to be an exercise in wasted breath. She’d been only one petitioner among many, and a very unimportant petitioner, at that. A dozen not-for-profit organizations were scrambling for the available public funds Metro parceled out on a semi-annual basis. In theory, the various groups were allies, all working for the “commonweal.” In actuality, they often ended up at each others’ throats during these sessions. The financial pie was limited, and each group wanted a major chunk to service its particular clients. There never seemed to be enough to go around, and every organization feared being left out in the cold.

  Renee’s group, the Social Outreach Sisterhood, boasted a savvy committee chief, fortunately. Evy’s experience dated back to the early ‘50s. The middle-aged black woman had learned a lot of the in and outs of the “do-gooder” business, including patience. She was trying to instil that quality especially in the younger members of Outreach.

  I’ve sure got a hell of a long way to go yet, compared to Evy, Renee thought. Sometimes I think the only reason she put me on the funding committee was to give me some extra instruction. Very much needed! After all, what have I got to offer, really? Damned little. I’m the token WASP among Outreach’s regular staff. Average. Not from a deprived background. Not from a rich, expensively educated background, with all the connections that could deliver to SOS. Every other committee member outranks me, has a better reason for getting involved in the work we do. Evy’s got those tons of experience in the black civil rights, feminist, and poverty protest movements. Susan’s got her Jewish background and dozens of crucial contacts in the academic community and service organizations. Maria comes right out of the Hispanic section of the city; she, like Evy, has had to put up with prejudice and its consequences in a way I’ve never even come close to. And Tran Cai? Third World. Boat person. Talk about background in being able to empathize with Outreach’s needy clients!

  A sputtering pickup towing a U-Haul was laboring slowly in the lane in front of Renee. She steered carefully around it, glancing at the driver and passengers as she passed. What she saw made her wince. A gaunt man and his haggard wife. Sad-eyed, woebegone kids. Goodwill furniture heaped precariously in the bed of the pickup. Obviously, the family was part of the exodus from the near-downtown area that was being razed. A developer was putting in brand-new housing and a mall there. Progress. And the project would pump badly needed money into the inner city’s economy. But while the low-cost housing was being built, lots of families like this one were being pushed out onto the streets. Who was going to help that human jetsam?

  The Social Outreach Sisterhood was, among other groups. In fact, SOS had made a heavy pitch in exactly that direction this afternoon at Metro.

  Typically, Deputy Mayor Delores Lupez, SOS’s friend on the Council, had been in their corner. Equally typically, that old pol Janike had fought them tooth and nail. Looking out for his buddies in other Metro departments, and their greedy relatives who wanted to grab a chunk of the financial pie. Evy had warned Renee and the rest not to bite on Janike’s insults. The councilman was baiting them deliberately, hoping to provoke an outburst so he could persuade his fellow board members to deny funding to SOS. Renee still seethed, remembering how she had to hold her tongue and endure Janike’s taunting questions. The man was antediluvian! A total Archie Bunker type. “SOS. Isn’t your title the Social Outreach Sisterhood? Didn’t you start out as a bunch of radical, bra-burning feminists? I don’t think Metro ought to be giving you girls money for special-interest projects. We shouldn’t cater to these questionable outfits, not when we’re obligated to serve the general public …”

  Evy had outmaneuvered him brilliantly. Yes, SOS had begun as a feminist association. It had since developed, and now served all sorts of people: battered women; abused children; the chronically unemployed and handicapped, men and women both; needy veterans; the elderly; displaced homemakers and entire families, like the one Renee had just passed. Evy finished by saying politely that she hoped Metro Council had also updated its goals, as the Sisterhood had. Gradually, she, Susan, Maria, and Tran Cai had swayed key board members, winning the desperately needed funding.

  And what was I? Cheering section. Well, that’s the best a probationer can expect, I suppose. But, dammit, I want to contribute. I feel guilty. Evy and the others, they’ve been through the real conflict. I didn’t even know what prejudice and poverty were, while I was growing up. I’ve got so much catching up to do!

  Later, rehashing the Metro session as they had trekked their way out to the parking lot, the sisters agreed they’d accomplished most of the day’s agenda. Not all, by a long shot, but most. “It seems slow,” Evy had said to console them. “Just remember where we came from. Don’t let the haters like Janike beat you down. Back in the fifties and sixties, a lot of the people in the movement were afraid none of the walls would ever go down. But plenty of ’em have. Plenty more will. We have to keep pushing. Or figure out how to bypass them — and obstacles like Councilman Janike. Otherwise, we go nowhere. Worse, we might go backward. So hang in there. We owe it to the little people. It takes time, though. You gotta learn patience.”

  That’s what it’s all about: The Little People. The ones who get stepped on and shoved aside. SOS has to help them. We simply must!

  If only I had a magic wand, I’d change Councilman Janike’s bigoted opinions so fast I’d …

  Renee sighed. Who was she kidding? A probationer wasn’t in a position to effect much change at all. She’d just have to keep plugging, as Evy and the others had for so long.

  And if she didn’t watch what she was doing, she’d end up as an accident statistic. She couldn’t afford even a fender banger, much less a few broken bones. And SOS wouldn’t be able to carry her through a recuperation period if she goofed up and had to spend weeks on the disabled list. Money was too tight. The clients came first. And in that case, she’d be reading the classifie
ds, again …

  Where in the hell was she?

  She sat up very straight and lifted her foot off the accelerator. All of a sudden, she was alone, driving into a thick cloud of smog. She’d never seen this part of the expressway before.

  Oh, hell, I took the wrong exit ramp!

  The smog was swallowing up the beams thrown by the Chevy’s headlights, and Renee poised her foot over the brake pedal. She couldn’t see any other cars around her. Not ahead. Not in the one lane remaining to her left. Not in the rearview mirror.

  Wait just a damned minute, she thought. I don’t care what exit this is. There has to be someone else getting off here during rush hour.

  But there wasn’t. She looked for barricades. That had to be the explanation: She had pulled onto an uncompleted ramp by mistake. Any moment now, she’d see flare pots and sawhorses ahead, blocking her way.

  Mingled with irritation at her error, Renee felt a growing sense of disquiet. The endless vista of city lights and skyline was fading, as if a curtain were dropping between her and the rest of the world. The smog no longer seemed offensive and ugly. In fact, it was becoming almost beautiful, a golden cloud, suffused with green.

  Green? The smog’s really weird this evening. Only it doesn’t look quite like smog. It looks like …

  The road vanished. So did the Chevy’s hood. She stomped hard on the brake, but the car didn’t stop. Nor did it feel out of control. It continued moving on into a universe that was crumbling.

  No, “crumbling” wasn’t the right word. Instead, everything she saw was like a wirephoto seen close up, composed of millions of tiny gray-green-gold dots.

  Renee used the clutch, shifting down, grateful she’d bought a car with a manual transmission rather than with a more expensive automatic system. Engine drag would halt this crazy ride …

  The gray-green-gold invaded the car’s interior, blotting out the dash lights and the steering wheel. She choked back a scream and braced herself for impact.

  Funny, in other wrecks she’d been involved in, everything had happened in split seconds. Why was the crash taking so long this time? Surely, any moment now, she had to hit something, traveling blind as she was. Well, maybe it wouldn’t be too bad, as slowly as the Chevy was moving. And this was a tough old car. It could take the knocks …

  What car?

  With stunned amazement, she realized she couldn’t feel the frayed seat covers, the shoulder harness, the brake pedal … nothing whatsoever was touching her.

  Had she already hit something? Was she being hurled from the car, flying through the air, heading for an agonizing collision with the pavement or another vehicle?

  She wasn’t airborne, though. No, those weren’t the sensations. Renee’s reactions were oddly detached, and she wondered dreamily if she were dead. Had it ended, minutes earlier, when she’d let her concentration slip? Perhaps she was lying back there on the expressway beside her wrecked Chevy. Just one more gory statistic.

  It will be okay, she thought with chilling practicality. My insurance will clean up the messy details. If only no one else was hurt …

  She was sitting on something cold and wet and hard.

  Renee groped about cautiously while she stared into the gray-green-gold smog. There was no engine vibration, no whistle of air past her face, no forward movement, though she couldn’t pinpoint exactly when her impressions of forward movement had disappeared. Her fingers touched stone, wet stone, and a fine mist began to spatter against her skin and clothes.

  Well, maybe she wasn’t dead, yet. Maybe she was merely lying on the pavement, injured.

  Dammit, she wasn’t lying; she was sitting. And seeing.

  She finally could see something besides that damned smog. Gray crowded out green and gold, and bit by bit, the gray took form: walls. Big, chunky blocks of gray stone stacked into high walls. A scene out of beautiful downtown Machu Picchu.

  No car. No expressway. No off ramp. Nothing resembling a modern road with lane stripes and embedded safety reflectors. No city lights. No skyline. Only the stone surface she sat on, gray walls, and mist. Even the smog was evaporating.

  She could see something else now: a man. He stood about twenty feet away from her, near a bend in one of the walls. The stranger shifted nervously from one foot to the other and glanced around. But when he looked toward Renee, he didn’t seem to see her.

  The man appeared to be in his mid-twenties, Renee’s own age, and wore a cloak and a floppy hat. Rain was pouring off the front of its brim.

  Rain? But where she sat, it was merely misting. Was she in some kind of limbo? He couldn’t see her, and she couldn’t feel his rain.

  Renee’s next thought was considerably more pleasant: He looks like he’d be fun to know. The young man had a slightly turned-up nose and enough worry chasing over his regular features to add maturity to what might otherwise be classified as a callow face.

  Maybe he could hear her, even if he couldn’t see her. Renee took a deep breath, preparing to shout a “Hello.”

  An odd noise stopped her before she could utter a sound. The young man jerked his head, peering to Renee’s right, and she turned that way, too. Whatever the noise was, at least they could both hear it. It grew louder, rising in pitch to a shrill whine, as painful as a rock band’s amp feedback. Then there was a loud pop.

  Where there had been nothing, two men now stood. One was a thin, fox-faced guy with a thick mop of black hair. The other was a rangy, muscular blond.

  Abruptly, Renee was no longer sitting in mist. She was being soaked by Floppy Hat’s downpour. Her teeth chattering, she moved onto her hands and knees. The gray-green-gold smog had vanished completely. She was crouching on a narrow stone street or alley, midway between Floppy Hat and the two new arrivals.

  The three men gaped at her. Floppy Hat gestured wildly to the others and shouted. Renee couldn’t understand a single word.

  “No! Stay there, Prince Chayo!” That was Fox Face, waving urgently at the man in the hat and cloak. The big blond divided his attention between them; his wrestler’s mug was remarkably vacant, devoid even of curiosity. Fox Face started to speak again, then clutched his temples. A strangled shriek burst from his mouth, and he pitched his length onto the puddle-filled street, writhing in pain. Blondie knelt beside him, his empty expression suddenly contorted with concern.

  Reflexively, Renee got to her feet and moved toward them. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Floppy Hat doing the same. Their Good Samaritan impulses were cut short by Fox Face. He roared at them, motioning them back. Puzzled, they watched Blondie help the smaller man to his feet.

  Fox Face sagged weakly against his companion and moaned, “They found us. Already! So much for arriving in an isolated area to forestall detection. I warned HQ about these damned porous networks.” Panting in agony, he fumbled at his shirt. It took Renee a few seconds to figure out what he was doing — tearing a strip off his shirttail. All the while, Blondie, who still hadn’t said anything, propped him up. Fox Face wiped the rag across a twinkling pendant he wore, muttering, “Transfer … essence … away. Tae!”

  Blondie, continuing to support the other man, seized the rag in his free hand, wadded it into a ball, and hurled it a startling distance off into the gray stone scenery. It had hardly traveled out of sight in the rain when a burst of blue-white incandescence exploded from that spot.

  Renee flinched, flinging her hands protectively over her head. Nothing happened. No follow-up explosions. No being pelted by shrapnel — or even by rag fragments. Apprehensively, she lowered her arms and peered around. Fox Face was no longer in pain, and he was glaring at her, making her feel naked. Then Renee sensed that wasn’t solely an emotional reaction. Her blouse and skirt had undergone a sea change; they seemed to be made out of moth-eaten fishnet. She wasn’t totally into a “sky clad” morality, and she fervently hoped her clothes weren’t quite as transparent as she suspected they now were.

  By now, Fox Face’s mood was approaching outrage. Renee adopted a
n innocent pose, trying to look apologetic. The man acted as though she were responsible for his pain, though she couldn’t imagine why.

  “Tae.”

  At that command, the big blond advanced on her. Renee backpedaled. Tricky going. The pavement was rain-slick, and among other things, she was now barefoot. She’d barely congratulated herself on avoiding a nasty fall when she saw that she’d been maneuvered into a cul-de-sac. Squeaking, she tried in vain to crawl inside the stones.

  Floppy Hat was arguing with Fox Face. She still couldn’t understand anything the former was saying. The skinnier man at first ignored the protest, then growled, “Oh, all right. All right! Tae!”

  The blond — obviously “Tae” — froze, looming over Renee. He was a hawk-nosed giant whose hair appeared to have been cut with a butcher knife, giving him a boyish, ragged fringe. His mouth was froggish, wide and thin-lipped, and presently split in a grin, perhaps one of sadistic anticipation. A pendant, a twin to Fox Face’s, swung against Tae’s dark, belted tunic. The jewel inside the metal cage glowed with a green fire. The only thing encouraging about the crazy situation was Tae’s stare. He had lovely big blue eyes, bright with humor. Was that humor benign or vicious? As if in answer, his grin broadened, and he put two long fingers against her lips.

  No talking? No screaming? Renee received a powerful impression that he had replied, “Yes.” But he hadn’t spoken.

  Well, what did it matter, anyway? She was lying on the freeway, delirious. Inevitably, another driver would run over her and this wild dream would end in an excruciating flash. So why not go with the flow while it lasted? She might even get to know Prince Chayo before reality finally intruded. There’d be time, soon enough, to wake up in an ambulance or emergency room, having needles stuck into her and medical staffers discussing frightening possibilities over her semiconscious form.

  Tae removed his fingers from her lips and grabbed her wrist in one of his paws. The men closed ranks, running, and Renee was towed along with them. Not roughly, but firmly, and at considerable speed. Cold rain plastered what was left of her clothes to her skin. She thought wryly that if she had a ten-rated bod, about now she could win a wet T-shirt contest.