Warlock

by Ray Garton

  She wasn’t really Chas’s grandmother; everyone called her Grandma at her request. She was an old forgotten film actress who had not made the transition from silents to talkies. Years ago, she’d taken Chas in when his parents—fanatical Seventh-Day Adventists—kicked him out for being gay; he’d been devoted to her ever since.

  In her actress days, Grandma had married some rich producer, outlived him, and inherited all of his money, most of which she spent on antiques, an interest she’d passed on to Chas, who spent much of his spare time browsing through antique shops and flea markets. His house was furnished almost entirely with antique furniture, old and dark and bulky. (His prize possession was an altar table, a religious relic which he claimed to have gotten for a bargain and was—well, God only knew how old it was; Chas got nervous whenever someone stood too close to it.) Kassandra had never completely gotten used to all the ancient tables and chairs and hutches and had furnished her bedroom with nothing but the newest of everything to make up for it.

  Grandma was nice enough, but Kassandra avoided her company whenever possible. She was scattered, smelled of mothballs, and was ugly as a jar of warts. She was . . .

  . . . old.

  Kassandra did not like old.

  She got out of the car and trudged inside, dreading the obligatory greeting. She hated the way Grandma always said—

  “Kuh-saaahhn-druh! How are you, young lady?”

  “Just fine, Grandma,” Kassandra replied, plopping her bag on the sofa and slipping off her jacket. She forced a smile as she leaned forward, offering her cheek, trying not to wince as the old woman kissed her with dry lips.

  “My, you look lovely. As always. Mm, so creative, fashions these days. How is work, dear?”

  “Just waitressing, right now.”

  “No parts? Oh, you must keep trying. Don’t get discouraged. You’re much too pretty to be hiding away in some restaurant. I know how easy it is to give up—I was there once, remember—but you must press on.”

  Kassandra squeezed out another smile and glanced at Chas. He looked rather tense, nervously twisting the ring on his pinky; he knew how uncomfortable she was around Grandma. But he was also grateful for her efforts to be friendly.

  Grandma asked the same questions each time, went through the same routine, as if it were all scripted like one of her old movies. Kassandra knew it was simply because the woman was—

  —Old, she thought—

  —short on remembering and the whole conversation was new to her, even though they’d been through it all before, but it still irritated her.

  “Come,” Grandma said, beckoning, “join us. I was just telling Chas about the night I was sitting with Tallulah Bankhead at Pickfair and—”

  —she had one of her temper tantrums, Kassandra thought, having heard the story dozens of times before.

  “Oh, Grandma, I’d love to, really,” she lied, interrupting gently, “but I’m bushed. I’m gonna hit the sack.” That, of course, was a lie. She was ravenously hungry and could smell something delicious in the kitchen; she wanted nothing more than to go in there and raid the refrigerator for leftovers of whatever Chas had concocted. But she knew that if she didn’t flee to her room, she’d be roped into another endless conversation with Grandma. And, worse still, the enticing aroma of Chas’s cooking could not completely blanket the old woman’s mothball smell, the faint odor of Ben Gay mixed with old perfume and . . .

  . . . the sweet ghostly whiffs of the inevitable decay of the flesh.

  “Oh, well, you need your sleep,” Grandma said, smiling in spite of her obvious disappointment. “You must keep those lovely eyes bright for the cameras. But do drop in on me sometime, I’d love the company. I don’t get out much and, you know, we actresses must stick together.”

  Here it comes, Kassandra thought. She didn’t want to hear it again.

  “We have so much in common, you and I.”

  No, no, her mind barked as she backpedaled out of the room, we have nothing in common, I don’t care what you say, old woman—

  “Why, I used to be—”

  —uh-uh, no way—

  “—just like you, Kassandra—”

  —no you didn’t—

  “—when I was a girl . . . young and pretty. But that was—”

  Kassandra nearly tripped on something furry and warm against her leg.

  “What’s this?” she yelped, looking down at the cat curling itself around her ankle. It was black with smoky gray stripes.

  “Oh,” Chas said perkily, “he’s a stray. Showed up on the porch and . . . well, it was so windy outside.” He stood up from the table and took the cat in his arms, nuzzling its neck. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  Kassandra rolled her eyes and sighed, heading for her bedroom.

  She immediately stripped out of her clothes and put on her favorite teddy—blood red with black lace trim—and Walkman headphones. She turned on some music and danced around her room silently, keeping an eye on the full-length mirror on the back of her door, watching herself, her body.

  She needed it, the rejuvenating burst of confidence she got from seeing herself like that; she needed it after being with Grandma.

  Working out had been paying off; she was curvy, but the curves were firm and she only jiggled where she was supposed to. Her skin was smooth, tanned, and, best of all, thanks be to heaven, young.

  She thought of the folds of skin hanging from Grandma’s jaws, the puffy pockets beneath her eyes, the deep creases that mapped her face . . . the way her upper back hunched, as if she were wearing a backpack under her dress . . .

  She envisioned Grandma’s naked body . . . sagging everywhere, melting like candlewax, liver-spotted and quivering . . .

  She saw, in her mind’s eye, the way the old woman’s gnarled, knotted hands trembled constantly, the way her feet shuffled uncertainly over the floor beneath swollen ankles . . .

  And Kassandra stopped dancing, stood before the mirror a moment, the music in her ears temporarily forgotten.

  “Please,” she breathed, “don’t let me get old . . .”

  After a deep breath and a toss of her shiny hair, she picked up the beat again and continued dancing . . .

  “What’s to eat?” Kassandra called from the kitchen when she heard Chas come back in the house. He’d walked Grandma to her cab. She was still in her teddy, peering into the refrigerator, peeking under the lids of Tupperware bowls. “I’m starving.”

  “Linguini and clam sauce. The yellow bowls on the second shelf.” He began clearing off the counter and putting dishes in the sink. “She doesn’t look good,” he muttered.

  “Hm?”

  “Grandma. She’s not looking well.”

  “She’s old.”

  “I know, but . . .” He turned to her and shook his head. “Kassandra, sometimes . . .”

  “What?”

  “You sound like she deserves to be sick just because she’s old. It’s not a crime.”

  “No, that’s not what I—”

  He went back to his cleaning and interrupted her. “She really likes you, Kassandra. You could be a little more sociable with her.”

  “I’m just not—”

  “I mean, the woman has a lifetime of experience and knowledge she’d love to share with you if you’d let her. You might learn something, you know.”

  “I know, Chas, but—”

  “Sure, she repeats herself a lot, but you’ll be old someday, too, and maybe nobody’ll want to listen to you talk about the good old days over and over again and you’ll know how it feels.”

  “All right, Jesus Christ, lock me up and throw away the key, why don’t you?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “It’s just that . . . she’s important to me. She’s all I’ve got.”

  Kassandra dished up some food and covered it with cling wrap for the microwave.

  “I know she’s important to you,” she said. “I’m just not . . . very good with old people.”

  “Well
. . . you could try to show a little more compassion. Somebody shows you some, it’s a good idea to spread it around a little, you know?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just the way I am.” The microwave beeped as she set it and hummed when she pushed START. Softly, she added, “And she’s not all you’ve got.”

  Chas dried off the meat cleaver he’d just washed. He wiped his hands on a dishtowel and turned to her, opening his arms. “C’mere.”

  She went to him and they hugged.

  “See?” he said. “You can be a nice person, too. I suspected as much. That was a nice thing you just said. Didn’t hurt, did it?”

  “Look, Chas, you’re uncomfortable around Seventh-Day Adventists,” she said into his shoulder, “I’m uncomfortable around old people. That’s all it is. And I’m not gonna be old someday.”

  “Oh? What, you’ve got one of those magic paintings like Dorian What’s-his-face?”

  “No. I’m just . . . not. That’s all.”

  He chuckled, stroked her hair. “Listen, kiddo, I’m more than a decade older than you and it happens, believe me. Like it or not, we all get old and die. So you’d better get used to the idea.”

  They were silent for a moment as the microwave hummed, until the cat wedged its way between their feet and meowed loudly.

  “Jesus, another one,” Kassandra said, looking down at the gray striped cat. “When’re you gonna stop?”

  He stepped back, grinned, and stroked her chin with his finger, saying, “Somebody’s got to watch out for us strays.”

  The microwave beeped.

  Kassandra rolled her eyes and said, “Hand me a fork, Mother Theresa. I’m starving.”

  Kassandra did not get to sleep easily; the wind screamed around the house like a chorus of maniacs, crashing and rattling things outside. When she finally did drop off, her sleep was disturbed by nightmares that incorporated the angry sounds of the night: the tree branches slapping the windows and scraping the roof . . . flying gravel pelting the outside walls . . . the entire house groaning under the weight of the winds . . . the clock radio blaring loudly and—

  —she blinked her eyes open and looked around her dark room.

  On her nightstand, a clock radio shaped like a 1939 Cadillac was playing at full volume.

  She sat up in bed, groggy and wincing; she knew she hadn’t set the alarm because she didn’t have to go to work until two in the afternoon.

  Kassandra reached over to turn it off and—

  —jerked her hand away and listened instead.

  She’d had the radio set on one station—an FM rock station—ever since she’d moved in. But now static sizzled through the small speaker in the car’s trunk like bacon frying in grease and her favorite station was fading out, being replaced by another—a country station, for Christ’s sake—then another—bone-dry classical music—and when that began to fade, she reached over and slapped it, turning it off.

  The glowing clockface in the driver’s door read 11:18—

  —but the second hand was frozen over the twelve, as if time had stopped.

  There was a new sound outside and Kassandra reached over and clicked on her lamp. The light came on, dimmed, flickered, became startlingly bright, then burned out with a faint crackle.

  She listened . . .

  Something that sounded much like a generator was pulsing outside the house.

  Kassandra got out of bed, went to her window, and peered outside.

  Bars of light from a streetlamp were shining through the waving tree branches making shadows dance through the night—

  —and a funnel of dirt and debris was twisting over the ground toward the house like a man-sized tornado.

  Kassandra rubbed her eyes with her fingers and blinked hard because . . . because . . .

  The twister seemed to be shimmering . . . sparkling, as if it were blowing silver glitter through the air.

  It tore around the front corner of the house and out of sight.

  She rubbed her eyes again, still not sure of what she’d seen. She could still hear the throbbing whoosh, but it was distant now, and she wondered if she’d seen anything after all. Sitting back down on her bed with a sigh, Kassandra decided it wasn’t important and—

  —an explosion of shattering glass brought her to her feet with a gasp.

  She heard Chas’s feet hit the floor in his bedroom and she ran for the door and met him in the hall. He was flapping his arms into the sleeves of his bathrobe, eyes wide.

  “ ’Zat you?” he croaked.

  Kassandra shook her head.

  Something thumped in the front of the house and broken glass tinkled merrily.

  “My table!” Chas hissed, hurrying down the hall.

  Kassandra followed him, whispering, “Fuck your damned altar table, Chas, call the cops!”

  In the living room, Chas hit the light switch and they both froze, sucking in a breath.

  Below the shattered front window, lying on a bed of blood-spattered glass, was a man dressed completely in black. Bits of glass sparkled in his shoulder length blond hair.

  “Friend of yours?” Kassandra asked.

  “All mine have keys.”

  They edged closer, careful to avoid the glass with their bare feet.

  The man’s right arm moved slightly. His features were harsh, skin dry and pale, face frozen in a grimace, a few cuts dribbling blood down his cheeks and chin. His lower lip was cut and beginning to swell.

  Chas leaned close to the man as he lifted an arm from the glass-strewn floor, then let it drop again, releasing a long ragged sigh.

  “Breathing,” Chas said. “It’s a wonder he didn’t cut himself worse.”

  Kassandra looked out the window for cars, lights, or people; she saw nothing, but something was wrong . . . different . . .

  “Canyon country,” she muttered. “You get ’em all.”

  The stray cat Chas had taken in that day slowly crept over to the man, settled on its haunches, and gently began to lick the cuts on his face.

  “Think he’s drunk?”

  Kassandra stepped a little closer to the window, walking gingerly on tiptoe. “I’d hate to think he does this kinda thing sober,” she said vaguely, looking out at the still night.

  That was it; everything was still outside, motionless and silent.

  The wind was gone.

  The only sound was the scrape of the cat’s tongue on the man’s face.

  Chas went to the telephone, held the receiver to his ear a moment, jiggling the button, then hung up.

  “Winds,” he mumbled.

  “But . . . the wind’s gone,” Kassandra said. “It’s stopped.”

  “Well, it must have blown a line down somewhere,” Chas said, disappearing down the hall, “because the phone’s dead.” He returned wearing Nikes and holding Kassandra’s slippers. He tossed them to her and said, “Put these on. Let’s get him up.”

  “Not a chance.” She caught the slippers and put them on, but just stared at the unconscious man.

  “Come on. A little compassion wouldn’t hurt, Kassandra.”

  “Or some smarts, Chas. Can’t take in every stray you meet.”

  He cocked a brow. “I took you in, didn’t I?”

  Kassandra sighed. He knew her weak spots. “That’s the one thing you could’ve said to get me to touch him.”

  Their feet crunched over glass as Kassandra took the man’s feet and Chas his shoulders. As they lifted him, something fell to the floor.

  Two small metal objects lay among the broken glass; they looked like miniature handcuffs.

  “And what are these?” Chas asked, squinting down at them.

  “Look like handcuffs for chihuahuas.”

  “Kinky.”

  Grunting, they moved him through the room. Kassandra angled toward the sofa.

  “No, no, not the davenport!” Chas barked. “It’s a hundred years old.”

  Kassandra rolled her eyes and aimed for the altar table.

  “Uh-uh, not t
here.”

  “Jesus, how old is that thing, anyway?” Her voice was tight from exertion.

  “Real old. Let’s take him to your room.”

  “My room?”

  “Everything’s plastic.”

  After they’d put the man on Kassandra’s bed, Chas returned to the living room and inspected the metal objects that had fallen from their visitor.

  “He’s out,” Kassandra said, returning with an armful of bedding. “Doesn’t smell of booze, though.”

  “Thumblocks,” Chas said.

  “What?”

  “Thumblocks. These things. I think. They don’t look very old, but—” He jerked on each of them. “—they’re sturdy . . . look genuine.”

  “Maybe he’s into antiques, too, Chas,” Kassandra said, yawning as she dropped the blankets and pillows on the sofa. “Maybe you two should get together.”

  “Well . . . he is kind of good looking,” Chas mused with a smirk. “In a rugged sort of way.”

  Kassandra spread out the blankets and fluffed the pillows.

  “Hey . . . you’re sleeping on my davenport?”

  “Chas, all your furniture combined is older than the entire fucking country. The only things not Early American are the microwave and the TV, and I’m not sleeping on either.”

  Chas headed for his room, still toying with the locks.

  “Put those on my dresser for him, will you?”

  “Only if you promise not to drool on my davenport in your sleep.”

  He clicked off the light and Kassandra curled up beneath the blankets, still trembling from the earlier surprise, hoping she could get back to sleep . . .

  2

  Scorpio

  In spite of the antiquity and apparent monetary value of the sofa—

  —No, no, Kassandra corrected herself, the daaah-venport—

  —it reminded her of a bed on which she’d once spent a sleepless night in a pink motel in Coalinga, just off noisy Interstate 5.

  A shower helped ease her aching neck and afterward, she walked naked down the hall to her room—

  —and let out a little yelp of surprise when she saw the man lying on her bed. She backpedaled out, returned to the bathroom and got her robe. She’d completely forgotten about him.