Strangewood (19 page)

Joe buried his face in his hands, elbows on the edge of the
kitchen table. He was tired, and frustrated, and too much in love. For when he
pictured Emily in his mind, when he looked around the kitchen, when he thought
of Nathan — whose face he'd only ever seen in pictures — lying in
that hospital bed . . . he just couldn't walk away.

That wasn't the way Joe Hayes was built.

The tea kettle was still whistling, and he'd let it go,
assuming it would be enough to call Emily and her ex into the kitchen. Now he
rose, took the kettle off the burner, and fixed himself a cup of tea. It was
chamomile, and already, it was something he associated with Emily.

With the rain pounding the window at the far end of the
kitchen, and the warm mug steaming in his hands, Joe sat down to wait out the
storm. No matter what, he vowed, he was in it for the long haul. Or, at least,
as long as Emily wanted him there.

* * * * *

A cool breeze blew off the broad lake behind Grumbler's
cottage. In the clearing in front of the cottage, just along the Winding Way,
the Peanut Butter General stood holding Grumbler's fedora in his right hand,
with the left resting on the pommel of his sheathed sword.

For once, the Orange Pealers were silent.

"Why should we trust you?" Brownie growled.

The others, one by one, mumbled or merely nodded their
agreement with the grizzly. The General squinted, his vision splintered through
a web of peanut butter stretched between his eyelids. He didn't notice, of
course, for there was nothing at all unusual about this. With a low grunt of
annoyance, the General scrutinized those who had gathered in the clearing: there
was the grizzly, of course, the dancing bear they had all taken for a fool for
so very long; the musical little dragon — the General thought he was
called Fiddlehead or . . . yes, Fiddlestick; Dave the Crow; Mr. Tinklebum, the
little bell-bottomed man who might be the only survivor of the firestorm that
enveloped the Land of Bells and Whistles. The bell bottom was not smiling, and
the General thought that might be a first. Then, of course, there was Laughing
Boy, who was more hyena than human.

They all stared at him, and the Peanut Butter General stared
back. The breeze blew through the trees that surrounded the circle. Wooden
chimes that hung from the side of Grumbler's cottage made tinkling music,
reminding them all that the dwarf was nowhere to be found. Other than that, the
sun-drenched clearing was silent.

"Dave?" the Peanut Butter General asked. "Where
is your brother?"

The crow cawed, flapped his oily-looking ebon wings, and
then fluttered up to sit heavily on Brownie's shoulder.

"I don't know!
Caw
!" Dave Crow replied.

"Well I know!" the General snarled. "He's in
the same place you'll find the dwarf and that annoying little horse."

He thought of Feathertop, the pony who had green feathers
sprouting from the top of his head, and how many times Feathertop had eluded
him in the past.

"The same place," he continued angrily, "that
you'll find Bob Longtooth and Cragskull."

The collective intake of breath gave him much satisfaction. Dave
Crow's wings fluttered and Brownie growled low and shifted his weight. Fiddlestick
grew completely still, and Laughing Boy did not so much as chuckle.

"Has anyone seen Gourdon lately?" Mr. Tinklebum
asked grimly, and he too shifted his weight, the clapper inside his body
allowing one gentle "bong" before quieting again.

"Hush!" Brownie said quickly.

"Ah," the General observed, "so Squashhead is
with them, as well. You see, you all know what has happened. The boy, Nathan,
has been taken. Even now, Grumbler spirits him away to the Jackal Lantern's
fortress.

"Strangewood must be saved. That is something upon
which we can all agree. But that is not the way to do it. It is simply not
acceptable, and likely to bring more destruction rather than a return to the
idyllic days we shared before. In truth, it may be far too late to ever return
to such innocent times. The unthinkable has happened. Now, I know that you have
been attempting to contact Thomas . . ."

Once again, he had shocked them with his frankness.

"Our Boy," Brownie growled.

"Yes, yes," the General said, waving him away. "I
have also been attempting to contact him, but breaking through is no mean feat,
as you have discovered. Efforts in that area will continue, of course, but we
cannot rely on Thomas . . . on Our Boy . . ." the General paused oddly at
this, seemed to lose his train of thought. Then he hurried on, hoping the
others would not notice.

"The Orange Pealers have allied themselves with the
cause, and so will others. Just as some of your friends have joined the
Lantern, so will some of those who have troubled you in the past now become
your allies."

The General let his gaze linger on Brownie. "I'm not
asking for your trust," he said bluntly. "I'm telling you what must
happen if you wish to save that child, and if you hope for any chance to save
Strangewood, and yourselves.

"If the boy dies," he said gravely, "we all
die."

The odd collection of characters around the clearing made no
response at first, save to exchange awkward glances with one another. All but
Fiddlestick. The little dragon still sat as though made of stone, at the center
of the small group upon whom the General had now placed his hope for the
future. Several of them whispered to one another, but still no reply was
forthcoming. The General was about to reprimand them, to demand action, when
Fiddlestick moved.

The little dragon sat up a bit straighter on his hind legs
and fluttered his wings. But the music that came from them now was not the
light and delicate sound of harps and chimes and violins. This sound was dark
and ominous, as his wings moved slowly on his back. Eventually, the dragon
settled down again, but now he'd gotten the attention of all those gathered in
the clearing. It was suddenly clear to the General that, much to his surprise,
the amiable little fellow was as close to a leader as the creatures of
Strangewood had ever had. He would have guessed Grumbler first, or even
Brownie.

Fiddlestick stared at the Peanut Butter General.

"If it will save the boy," Fiddlestick said,
"we are at your command."

* * * * *

On Wednesday morning, Emily stood on the back deck sipping
her second cup of coffee. Her robe was loose around her body, and the short
night shirt beneath fell suggestively across her breasts and barely reached
down to cover her panties. To either side, her neighbors could have gotten a
decent view of her from porch or side windows. It wasn't that she didn't mind. It
was simply that she hadn't thought of it.

Her mind was otherwise occupied. She stared hard at the
swingset in the backyard, the hard rubber seats so very still, undisturbed by
the light breeze. The rain had stopped hours earlier, but the sun hadn't quite
broken through and there were small pools of water all over the deck. Thomas
had chosen the right stain when the deck had been built, apparently. She'd have
to reapply it herself this summer, she thought.

There was a tiny creak behind her. Emily imagined she could
feel the disturbance in the air. In her mind's eye, she saw the house: its
paint was Chatham Sand, the shutters a deep green. The slider would be open,
and through it, she would be able to see a large portion of the kitchen she'd
been so proud of.

If Joe weren't in the way.

Without turning around, Emily said, "Don't you have a
class to teach?"

She could practically hear him grinding his teeth. "Why
are you putting this on me?" he asked. "It isn't my issue. It isn't
even really my business."

"No, it isn't," she snapped. "Life isn't
black and white, Joe. Don't get me wrong. It would be wonderful if things were
as simple as you apparently think they are."

Pause. "Whatever."

Another creak, as he stepped back into the house. She heard
the shush of the screen sliding closed.

But he wasn't done. She knew that. She already knew him well
enough to know that he wasn't about to walk away until he was certain she had
understood his intentions.

Emily waited, sipped at her coffee, imagined Joe pulling his
clothes on, lacing his sneakers. A few minutes later, she heard the front door
close, and blinked in surprise. She took a deep gulp of java and then began to
turn toward the house.

"Listen."

Emily jumped, spilled coffee onto the emotionless face of
Snoopy, drenching her night shirt. She spun, and glared at Joe, who had come
around the garage, wheeling his bike beside him.

"Don't sneak up on me like that!" she said
halfheartedly.

Joe chose to ignore that. Instead, he just sighed and let
his bike lean against his leg.

"Emily, I'm not going to argue with you about this. It
isn't my place, and with all that's going on, I'm not sure you can be objective."

She began to protest angrily, but he held up a hand to stop
her, and the pained look on his face convinced her to let him go on.

"What little you told me of what Thomas is going
through makes it sound like a lot more than just some kind of basic hallucination.
I've heard of people under stress imagining things, but never on this
level," Joe explained. "You said yourself that you think he needs
help."

"I also said he's going to get it," she said
coldly. "I'm not sure what this is about, Joe, but Thomas is still a big
part of my life. I'm not in love with him, but I love him, and he's Nathan's
father. Right now, today, I'm sure he's scrambling to get in to see someone,
for Nathan's sake as well as his own. You have no right to . . ."

"I know that," Joe snapped, and now it was his
turn to smolder angrily. "That's what I've been saying, if you'd bother to
listen!"

They glared at one another. Joe ran his hands through his
hair and sighed and shook his head. "Listen," he said, "I have a
class to teach, and if Thomas is going to be out of action today, you need to
get to the hospital. All I'm saying is, if he's this close to having a complete
breakdown, it's no sin for you to start considering Nathan's best interests,
and whether Thomas is in any condition to do the same."

Emily bit her lip as the tears began to well in the corners
of her eyes.

"Don't you think I've thought of that?" she said,
her voice hitching. "I could barely sleep last night because all of this
was on my mind. But custody isn't something you can make snap decisions about. Even
if he is having problems more serious than a good night's sleep will fix, it
isn't like I can just challenge the custody arrangement out of nowhere.

"It would kill him, don't you see?" she pleaded. "If
Nathan's being sick is already making him crazy, that would drive him over the
edge completely."

Joe couldn't meet her gaze. Apparently, he'd had his say.

"Damn you," Emily hissed. "You were right. It
isn't any of your business."

She turned toward the house, but she moved slowly, defeated.
Nathan waited for her at the hospital, but all Emily wanted to do was fall back
into bed — alone — and sleep.

"Em," Joe said gently. "Will I see you
later?"

As she slid the screen across and then latched it, Emily
looked at him, trying to find the response in her heart.

"Not today," she said at length.

* * * * *

The sidewalks of New York City were swarming with suits and
street people, falafel and hot dog vendors, and cops. The sun had finally
broken through, and the sky had turned a bright blue. The moisture that had
been lingering in the air was quickly burning off as Francesca Cavallaro
hurried along West 47th Street. She glanced at her watch one more time, nearly
trampling a young boy playing percussion on an upside down pickle tub.

Frankie swore softly as she turned north on Broadway. The
diner was diagonally across the street, and she looked both ways for traffic
before jaywalking. It wasn't something her mother had taught her. It was
something New York had taught her. Even the city buses would hit you if you
happened to be crossing the street against the light.

A cab sped toward her, going south on Broadway, and
Francesca picked up her pace. She kept glancing over to the entrance of the
diner. It didn't even seem to have a name, at least not on the outside. She
thought it was called Cleo's, but she couldn't be certain. What was important
at the moment was that she was nearly twenty five minutes late to meet Thomas,
and it was getting to be a habit. Granted, she'd been surprised to hear from
him this morning, asking that she meet him for a late breakfast at 10:30. He
was going to be in the city — he wouldn't say what for — but it was
providential, from her perspective. She needed to pin him down, anyway, and
hadn't known exactly how to approach him.

He'd saved her the trouble by calling to set up the
breakfast meeting.

With a sigh, she reached the propped-open front door of
Cleo's. It was only by chance that she happened to look over her shoulder. A
pair of dueling taxis honked at one another and tires screeched, voices were
raised, and Francesca turned to look.

Thomas stood at the corner of Broadway and 48th, hand up to
draw the attention of a taxi not involved in demolition derby.

"Shit!" Francesca turned toward him, picked up her
pace. Even as she closed in, a taxi three lanes away jerked across traffic and
began to slow.

"Thomas, wait!"

He spun, and Francesca was stunned by his appearance. He
looked haggard, unshaven. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he seemed
to be chuckling silently as she ran up to him.

"I'm sorry I'm late," she said, and then waited. Under
normal circumstances, she would have fully expected him to chastise her in his
amiable way and then return to the restaurant with her. Instead, he only
shrugged.