The Face-Changers jw-4
Page 44
Once Marshall thought he saw the one he was looking for, but as he stepped toward her, a hand touched his arm. He turned and found Violet Peterson with her face close to his. She said quietly, “If you’re here to arrest somebody, you picked a rotten time.”
“I didn’t—”
“Would you go to a church on Easter and haul somebody out in front of his family?”
He said, “I’m not here to do anything like that. I was just hoping that they would be here. If you see them, will you let me know?”
She said suspiciously, “If I see them, I’ll let them know.”
Marshall saw huge cauldrons brought in from the kitchen building, and matrons ladling food into bowls for eating in the dining hall next door and into covered containers for taking to people who were not here.
Twice he thought he saw her, but each time it was another young woman with long black hair. He didn’t find the one he had come to look for until early evening, after the dancing had begun. He saw her only because she was standing along the wall close to her husband. The drums throbbed, the singers wailed, and the turtle shells made a noise like ghosts whispering in Marshall’s ear as he approached.
She seemed to feel his presence rather than hear it. She turned to face him and stared into his eyes for a moment, then lowered her head and took a step. Her husband started to follow, but she shook her head.
She led Marshall out of the western door of the long, low building, down the wooden steps, and into the night. She turned again to look up at him.
He said, “I heard you were going to be here.”
“I didn’t say it. I left a note in my house for my husband.”
He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “My name is John Marshall.”
She nodded. “My husband told me. He remembers you from the hospital.”
Marshall said, “I was the one in Santa Barbara.”
She said, “I’ve never been to Santa Barbara.”
“I didn’t think so,” he said. He looked in the direction of the longhouse, where the sounds of singing and dancing had grown louder. “What are you folks celebrating?”
Jane seemed to ponder for a moment, as though she were compressing a great many complex matters, then answered, “Being alive.”
Marshall smiled. “Me too.” He started again, looking at her intently. “I know you must have heard Richard Dahlman turned out to be innocent. All the evidence—a witness, tape recordings, videotapes even—all turned up miraculously. The charges were dropped.”
“I think I read something about it in the newspapers.”
He looked down at his feet. “There was a woman I met not long ago who reminded me of you. She gave me a present.” He reached into his pocket and handed her a small black box that looked like a transistor radio. “This is something I thought you might like.”
“What is it?”
“It’s kind of a safety device. It detects even the very faintest resistance on any electrical line. If, for instance, there were some very small appliance that was draining voltage on your house—say, a transmitter of some kind—you could pick it up and find it.” He shrugged. “Silly gadget, but it could prevent the wires from heating up some time.”
“Thank you,” she said.
He began to back away from her. “Don’t mention it.”
She stared into his eyes. “I never will.” Then she added, “Unless I happen to meet that woman.”
“What woman?” He turned and walked toward the longhouse parking lot, then got into a car. She watched the car moving up the road until the two taillights diminished into a single, glowing spot of orange-red light no bigger than a firefly. She listened to the pounding of the drums and the shuffling of many feet on the wood floor inside.
This was the first night of Green Corn. This morning babies born since Midwinter had been given names, and adults who were taking on new names had announced them. Tomorrow there would be the chanting of personal thanks for good fortune and accomplishments, the appearance of the Society of Faces to cure the sick, and more food and dancing. And on the final day, there would be the casting of the peach pits, one side white and the other burnt black. The pits would be thrown down and read, over and over, until the black side or the white side triumphed, in imitation of the eternal battle between the Creator and his identical twin brother, the Destroyer.
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Document creation date: 20.6.2012
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