The Complete Short Fiction of Charles L. Grant, Volume IV: The Black Carousel (10 page)

She still couldn’t see him.

Thunder, loud and stomping away.

A second check of the staircase. She opened the
screen door and, with a deep breath, stepped onto the porch,
hugging herself when the storm cold leaped out of the shrubs and
grabbed her, telling herself she was a jerk, a dope, a real first
class idiot, she was going to catch pneumonia and her father would
kill her.

This time she saw him.

Without the lightning. When her vision adjusted.
When the rain, just for a second, was split by the wind, she saw
him standing by the tree, one arm around the bole as if to keep
himself from being blown away. He was dressed the way she had first
seen him, but she frowned when she realized that he wasn’t touched
by the storm — his hair wasn’t flying, his clothes weren’t wet.

She wondered if she should wave, let him know
she had seen him.

“Looking for your ghost?”

She screamed and froze, became rigid when hands
took her shoulders and lifted her, held her, and a voice whispered
god, I’m sorry
over and over again, turned her around away
from the wind and she could see over her father’s shoulder and
could see that Chip was gone. Her teeth began to chatter. She bit
her tongue, yelped, and he took her inside, straight to the
kitchen, sat her at the table and turned on the light over the
stove. A small light. Just enough for her to see him, but not his
eyes.

Without speaking he warmed some milk in a pan,
poured her a small glass, poured himself one and sat.

“Nightmare?” A soft question.

The old man, the bull, was gone, leaving the
rain behind to rattle across the roof and splash out of the
gutters.

She hated warm milk, it was for little kids and
old people, but it tasted good when she sipped it

“No. The thunder woke me.”

“It always sounds louder with all these hills
around, all this open space.” He chuckled. “They’re no worse than
the ones back in Cambridge, they just sound that way.” He pointed
at the ceiling. “It woke me too. Your mother, on the other hand,
that woman will sleep through World War III.”

She nodded.

“So, what were you doing on the porch?”

A shrug.

A yawn.

“Fran.”

In the dim light she could see a smile,
gentle.

“I know it’s been hard, really I do. But we’re
all done now, and you can meet some more kids, have a good time the
rest of the summer. I just . . . I didn’t realize how much work it
would be, and I’m sorry. Must be kind of lonely, huh?”

A shrug.

A wider yawn.

The milk had cooled; she pushed the glass away.
He stood, and held out his arms. “C’mon.”

She was too old and they both knew it, but to
make him happy she let him pick her up, let her chin rest on his
shoulder while he turned off the light just as the old man
returned, turned into the bull, and slammed the house with a jolt
that startled them both. Her father laughed. She snuggled closer,
hands tucked against her neck as they moved down the hall and
started up the stairs.

She yawned so hard her jaw popped, and she
giggled, felt her eyes begin to close and was glad they did because
if they hadn’t, if she had been wide awake, she would have had to
tell her father that Chip was standing on the porch.

Fever dream.

Hot and cold monsters fighting in her blood.

Hot hands and cold hands pressed tenderly
against her cheeks, brushing damp hair from her brow, settling a
thin blanket beneath her chin.

Chip walking through the wall to say hi.
Checking out the room. Telling her it was nice. Waving good-bye
when the sun went down.

Blood on the inside of her cheek when she bit
it.

Warm hands.

Cool hands.

“I just don’t understand it.”

“For crying out loud, Lanette, how many times do
I have to say I’m sorry? I didn’t realize she was that wet. She
wasn’t outside that long. And she was fine when I put her to
bed.”

“She was on the porch, for god’s sake, in the
middle of a storm, and all you gave her is a glass of milk. You
didn’t even dry her off. She’s lucky she isn’t in a hospital.”

“Good lord, the doctor said it’s only a cold.
She’s had colds before. Dozens of them. It isn’t going to kill
her.”

“I hate this place. God, I hate this place.”

“Now you’re being silly.”

“Me? Silly? Who’s the one who said construction
in a place like this was going to make us rich? Who gave up a
perfectly good partnership and threw in with people he didn’t even
know?”

“Lanette —”

“Have you looked around lately, Neal? Have you
seen how many new houses are going up? I didn’t see a goddamn one!
Even the houses that aren’t a hundred years old look it, for
Christ’s sake.”

“Oh, right, like I kidnapped you, huh? Like I
dragged you and the kid to the middle of nowhere, kicking and
screaming.”

“Well it is nowhere, Neal. And it’s in the
middle of nowhere.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Go to hell.”

“Jesus Christ, all this for just a goddamn cold?
What the hell are you going to be like when she breaks a leg or
something?”

“Don’t say that. Don’t you
ever
say
that.”

Fever dream.

Hands.

Ostrich taking her away, a boy effortlessly
racing beside her.

“Who’s Chip?”

“I don’t know. One of those kids, I guess. I
don’t remember.”

“Sounds like a boy.”

“So what? She knows boys, you know, Neal. It’s
not like she’s never seen one before.”

“Why didn’t she tell us about him?”

“Hush, she’s sleeping.”

“I didn’t know she had a boyfriend.”

“I’m sure she doesn’t have a boyfriend already,
Neal. Lord. You sound just like a father.”

“I’m just curious. She talks about that Kitt
girl and those other kids — I just wonder why she never told us
about this Chip.”

“Maybe it’s because you never give her a chance.
You’ve got her working like a slave around here.”

“Jesus, not that again.”

“Keep your voice down.”

“I just want to know about this boy, that’s all.
What are you trying to do, hang me for asking?”

“Well, why don’t you just shake it out of her,
huh? Big man. Ask her if she’s sleeping with him, why not.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“See? Big man. Just leave us alone, Neal. Go
back to your goddamn grass and your goddamn bushes and goddamn
leave us alone.”

Fever dream.

* * *

On Sunday morning Fran marched into the kitchen
and told her father that if she didn’t go someplace else besides
the front porch or the backyard right away she was going to throw a
tantrum, hold her breath until her face turned blue, scream until
her head fell off, break every piece of furniture in the house,
have a heart attack and die.

He picked her up and they glared at each other.
She could feel his arms trembling with her weight.

“Bored, huh?”

“I’m dying!”

“You look pretty good to me.”

“I’m dying, Daddy.”

“You’ve been sick.”

“That was days ago!”

Nose touched nose, and she felt her eyes want to
cross, her lips want to smile.

“How about a walk?”

“More than just around the block.”

“The carnival?”

“It’s not open during the day. Kitt told
me.”

“Okay, the park?”

She nodded.

He put her down, aimed an open hand at her head
which she ducked and ran out of the kitchen, grinning, catching her
mother by the arm as Lanette walked out of the living room, telling
her they were going over the wall, not to alert the warden or the
bulls will shoot them down in cold blood and burn their bodies with
the trash.

“Where on earth did you hear that?”

Fran shrugged. “TV, I guess.” She took her
mother’s hand and tugged it, gently. “C’mon, we’re going to the
park.”

“We?”

“All of us,” Neal agreed, joining them in the
foyer, rubbing his palms together. “Cabin fever is my diagnosis.
Best cure in the world is some ice cream, junk food, and a walk
under the trees.”

Lanette shook her head. “I don’t think so. It
must be a hundred out there.”

“Eighty-eight,” Fran told her. A shrug at her
expression. “I heard it on the radio.” She tugged again. “C’mon,
Mom, please? It’s not that hot.” Nothing; only a glance at her
father. “I promise I won’t run around, okay? I’ll sit. I’ll lie
down.” She let her lower lip tremble. “Mom, c’mon,”

It was like the storm again before it struck —
electricity she could feel, thunder she could hear like the rush of
blood in her ear. Daddy called it cabin fever; she called it
wanting to get out before somebody killed somebody. All that
silence made her nervous.

The knock on the screen door, then, made her
jump, made her mother slip back into the living room, as if sliding
into a closet.

It was Kitt, and someone else. “Hi,” Fran said,
too loudly.

Kitt grinned. “Wanna go to the park? This is
Drake Saxton.

He lives in my neighborhood, next door, really.”
The smile slipped to a curled lip of disdain. “He’s gonna baby-sit
us. Mom’s paying him,”

He was tall, thin, had ten times as much hair as
her father, and Fran couldn’t believe they actually needed a
baby-sitter in the middle of the day practically.

“Hey,” Drake said.

Fran didn’t think he was all that thrilled
either.

Neal introduced himself, and Fran slipped onto
the porch to stand beside Kitt while Drake told Fran’s father that
he was playing ball with his buddies today and had promised Mrs.
Weatherall he’d look after Kitt. Fran could tell he hated it, even
if he was getting money for it; she could tell her father didn’t
care that Drake hated it when he said after a glance over his
shoulder, “Maybe I’ll stay home, then, work in the garden. You sure
you don’t mind, son?”

Of course he does, Fran answered with a
disgusted look, but Drake only shrugged a
makes no never mind to
me one way or the other.

“You be good,” Neal cautioned.

Fran rolled her eyes. Kitt giggled, grabbed her
hand, and they ran down the steps.

“Hey!”

They stopped.

“Fran, home by supper.”

She nodded, waved, waved to her mother standing
at the window, and they ran again, not caring whether Drake caught
up with them or not, not slowing until they reached High Street and
turned east where the heat at last reached them, and the sweat
broke free on their backs and brows. Kitt said they should have
brought their bathing suits, some of the others probably had, but
Fran didn’t answer with more than a grunt. She was free, that’s
what mattered; she was out of the house, away from the looks and
the snide remarks and the way her parents avoided each other and
didn’t think she noticed. Ever since the storm. Ever since Daddy
had said something at dinner about all the work he couldn’t find,
times were tough, it wasn’t his fault. She would have gone out
naked if that’s the way it had to be.

She glanced over her shoulder. “He doesn’t like
you or what?” she said.

Kitt, chewing on the end of a pigtail, waved a
hand. “He’s too good for us. Big man. Just like my brother.”

“Oh.” Another glance. He was a block behind,
catching up without running, staring at his sneakers. “I thought
you said you didn’t have a brother?”

“He’s not my real brother. The Martians brought
him one night when I wasn’t looking. Drake came with him, in the
garbage bag.”

Fran laughed.

Kin punched her arm lightly.

“They’re in high school, huh, your brother and
him?”

Kin made a face. “No. Junior’s in college. Ricky
— he’s my Martian brother — he wants to be an actor, can you
believe it? Make movies and plays and stuff. Big deal. At least
he
thinks he is.” She covered her mouth and laughed. “I saw
him kissing a girl last night. God, it was gross.”

“I’ll bet,” Fran agreed. Lips touching lips. Mom
and Daddy. “Ugh. So where are we going?”

“The pond. Elly says it’s time you got a friend
around here.”

Fran stared. “Aren’t you my friend?”

“Well, yeah, but this is different.” “What do
you mean?”

Kin pushed her playfully. “You’ll see. It’s a
secret.”

“I hate secrets.”

“Me too.” She laughed again.

By the time they reached Centre Street, the
shops and offices dosed, no one on the sidewalks, Drake was right
behind them, baseball bat over one shoulder, baseball cap pulled
down and sullen over his eyes.

“You don’t have to follow us, you know,” Kitt
told him without turning around. “You’re not a shadow, in case you
hadn’t noticed.”

“Don’t be a pain, Kitt,” he answered glumly.
“And I’m not gonna follow you, okay? I got better things to
do.”

“Just see that you don’t.”

Fran said nothing. She didn’t know if this was
the way you were supposed to talk to friends of big brothers, so
she let Kitt do it all. And she did. All the way to the park.
Telling him not to spoil her fun, stay a hundred miles away and
leave her friends alone or she’d tell his mother what she saw him
doing in his car the week before. A giggle. Fran hated that sound.
Kitt made it like she couldn’t breathe right and had to gargle when
she did. It was ugly.

They passed the tobacco shop, piles of Sunday
papers stacked by the door, and the delicatessen where Kitt
wondered aloud why Drake wasn’t behind the counter helping her
father if he really wanted to make some money, and the hardware
store locked up and dark in spite of the sun. Across Park Street,
then, and Fran looked at the high iron fencing that fronted the
park, at the open iron gates through which people strolled now,
pushing carriages, carrying baseball gloves and picnic baskets,
kids running despite the weather; into the shade made by trees so
close together, so high, so thick around, she thought she had
fallen back into her dream, fever dream, and she had to shake her
head to clear it, and trot to catch up with Kitt, who had swerved
to the right and was making her way along a worn path between
shrubs that had big shiny leaves but no flowers.