The Complete Short Fiction of Charles L. Grant, Volume IV: The Black Carousel (18 page)

“Gross, am I right?”

“Wax,” he said. Numb; he was numb. He had to be.
Otherwise, he would have screamed.

“Like shit,” she snapped, and raked a fingernail
across a cheek and pointed at the blood that flowed brightly to the
stage.

He snatched his hands away.

She dropped the head back into its basket,
folded her arms over her thighs, hands dangling between, and said,
“So now what do we do?”

He staggered away.

“Hey!” she called.

“I’m going home,” he answered.

“What am I, suddenly ugly or something?”

“I’m going home!”

“Big shot college man, you think you’re too good
for me or something?”

A disgusted wave of his arm.

“Hey, reporter, you fucking forgot something,
you ass!”

Something hit him hard on the lower back.
Angrily he turned, and saw Barbi’s head roll to a stop on the
ground, bleeding from the gouge Deena had torn in her cheek, one
eye open, the other eye puffed closed, the forked tongue of a dead
snake protruding between her lips.

He felt the impact again, flinched, and tore off
his shirt, threw it aside.

Deena whistled and applauded from the stage.

Kill her, he thought; what the hell, you’re
probably dead anyway, so go over there and kill the bitch, why the
hell not.

She jeered.

He flexed his fingers, rolled his shoulders, and
glared as she jumped up and down on the stage, tearing off her
veil, her top, grabbing her breasts and pointing them at him,
sneering, calling him names, turning around and yanking down the
harem pants, spreading her legs and looking at him upside down.

He started for her.

She laughed, fell into a somersault and came up
facing him, hugging her knees and winking.

Kill her; sonofabitch, I’ll kill her.

Close enough to see the basket, close enough to
know there was something else inside.

Deena sobered and stood up, arms crossed over
her chest.

Close enough to see the weave of the straw.

“Drake?”

She was frightened.

He grinned.

“Drake, you’re not going to hurt me, are
you?”

He had it now. He had it.

Her arms fell away slowly.

“Don’t hurt me, Drake. Be nice. Don’t hurt
me.”

But she didn’t move away.

He knew why.

He was in control.

Perhaps subconsciously before, but definitely
consciously now. He was in control, and whatever he did to Deena he
would do of his own choice.

The cobra lashed out of the basket before he
could react. It struck her in the stomach, dropped, rose, struck
her again on the hip.

She screamed.

He stopped.

Skin turning black, turning purple, turning a
hideous yellow; splitting and spitting blood.

Damn, he thought, and turned away.

“If you don’t stop,” she said, “I’m going to
break you in half.”

He kept walking toward the exit, elbowing aside
a young man swaggering along with his girl.

“Damnit, Drake!”

Jill tried to grab his shoulder, but he shrugged
the hand away. “I gotta get home, okay?” he said, not caring if she
heard him. His choice this time, not hers.

“Drake, you’re nuts!” From her voice, she wasn’t
following. He waved her a good-bye and passed under the arch,
crossed Mainland Road and headed for home. The music softened
behind him. The voice of the crowd became a murmur. The wind kicked
at him and he kicked back, sending a stone into the street.

Dark houses.

He didn’t care.

This weekend would be one his aunt and uncle
would never forget. One word, one cockeyed look, and he’d let them
know what he’d been thinking for the past ten years. His mother
would be furious, but he’d feel great. As long as, he reminded
himself, he held onto his resolve. And to do that, all he had to do
was remember what he’d done, what he had cause to have done, to
Wendall and Chuck and Deena and the others. How it happened didn’t
matter. Dreams, wish fulfillment, sidestepping into a world where
he wasn’t so thoughtful after all — it didn’t matter. The guilt and
the fear were gone, replaced by something still under
experimentation. As of now it had no taste, but when he was
finished he knew it would taste sweet.

A snake hissed in the gutter.

He stepped off the curb and walked on.

Tomorrow — maybe — he’d call Jill to apologize.
Not humble himself. Just apologize. If she wanted more, she’d have
to wait, and wait a long time.

A shadow stalked him across darkened lawns. At
the corner, he whirled and drew his gun, fired, heard the scream,
and walked on.

And tomorrow — definitely — he’d go to the
newspaper and suggest to the editor that he was a little tired of
writing paragraphs about birthday parties and high school awards.
Even in the Station, damnit, there were more important things than
that. How the hell, he would say, am I going to learn about the
news if I don’t get to do anything about it?

If the editor complained, he would walk out,
what the hell.

And if his mother complained, he would tell her
that he loved her, and she should mind her own business, that he
had his own map now and finally knew how to read it.

A waltz played on a harpsichord.

He clapped his hands impatiently.

The music stopped.

“Make love to me, Drake,” a woman asked from
behind a hedge.

“Put your clothes on,” he answered without
breaking stride. “Ask me again tomorrow.”

At the last corner, his corner, he stopped and
clasped his hands, placed them against his lips and stared up
block.

No lights.

No movement.

An automobile parked in front of his house.

A brief moment of panic — damn, they’re here
already; shit, I’m in trouble — before he lowered his hands to his
pockets, squared his shoulders. And moved on, slowing in puzzlement
when he recognized his mother’s car, and there was none in the
drive.

So they weren’t here yet.

Despite his resolution he couldn’t help the
relief, pleased he wouldn’t have to display his excuses.

Halfway up the walk he saw her on the porch.

“Hi,” he said.

“Where were you?”

“Didn’t you read the note?”

“I’ve been home for over an hour, Drake. I had
hoped you’d be here.”

At the bottom of the steps he stopped, rubbed
the back of his neck, and hoped she saw his apologetic smile. “I
went a little nuts,” he explained. “I did everything — did you see
the steaks in the fridge? — and couldn’t sit anymore.” He heard the
whining, couldn’t help it. “I wasn’t gone for more than a couple of
hours.” A deep breath. “C’mon, Mom, what’s the big deal?”

“The big deal,” she said, voice tight, “is that
if you had been here like you were supposed to be, I wouldn’t have
had to wait to tell you.”

Control, he ordered; don’t lose it now.

“Mom —”

“They’re dead.”

His laugh was short. “What?”

“They’re dead.”

Up a step. She backed away toward the door.

“Mom, what the hell are you talking about? Who’s
dead?”

“Wendall,” she said flatly. “Sheri. The
kids.”

The second step, although his legs felt like
wood.

“The state police said — ”

“State police?”

“— they had apparently gotten the car fixed
—”

“Mom, what are —”

She stamped her foot. “Do not. Interrupt.
Me.”

Third step, with palms slick and a hint of ice
on his back.

Dead? Deena and Barbi?

His mother a black ghost beside the screen door,
features faint, still in the blouse and skirt she had worn to work
that morning.

“They were nearly to Harley when a truck — a
milk truck, for god’s sake — swerved over the center line. Wendall
tried to avoid it, but he was speeding — trying to get here,
obviously and clipped the truck and hit a tree.”

Not a dream; not a dreamer.

“Oh Jesus, Mom.”

A cricket relieved the silence, soon followed by
one tree frog calling to another.

“Come up here.”

It’s all right, he told himself; this doesn’t
change anything. You’ve still got control now. You’re just going to
have to help her through this. Later; you can tell her later.

On the porch he let her take his left hand; hers
was dry, parchment, as if she suffered a high fever.

“You have no idea,” she said quietly, her voice
breaking, “how long I’ve waited.”

“Mom, please, it wasn’t —”

She opened the screen door and propped it with
one foot. The inner door was already ajar. “Years. It seems like a
hundred.”

“Years?” This was getting too much. “Mom, if it
was more than two hours, I’ll eat Mr. Tarman’s glider.”

She reached over her head and smacked the
beveled globe, smacked it again until the night-light came on. Then
she stepped inside, pulling him toward her. He resisted, thinking
maybe she was a little crazy with grief When she pulled again,
however, he obeyed.

And stopped.

“Years,” she repeated wearily, and snapped her
fingers. The kitchen light came on. “I never thought it would
happen.”

He couldn’t move.

“What? What would happen?”

Another snap; a lamp in the living room showed
him her face. She was grinning, with tears in her eyes.

“You know,” she said, and laughed without a
sound. “You saw it.”

He couldn’t move.

“Mom?”

“They picked at me,” she said bitterly, still
smiling. “Like I was a chicken bone, leftover turkey. They picked
me to death, and they wouldn’t stop.” A hand reached into the light
and touched his chest, brushed it, pulled away. “He went away, the
bastard, and they swooped in like vultures. They sat on me. They
picked. Rene’s the baby, Wendall, she doesn’t know what she’s
doing.” Her eyes closed. “I swear to God, Drake, I don’t know what
I would have done if it hadn’t come back.”

He couldn’t move, could scarcely breathe.

She winked. “I took a ride, dear. Just like you
did. On Tuesday, remember? He took me to the fair.”

Oh Jesus oh God.

“And you,” she said, “thought it was you, didn’t
you?”

Couldn’t move.

Wanted to scream.

“Darling,” she said, almost crooning, “I’m your
mother, sweetheart, I’m not stupid. And don’t look at me like that,
dear. Don’t think you’re going to get away before I decide it’s
time.” The hand again, patting his chest, dusting it, pinching it
once. Hard. “Think about it. Stand there a little while and think
about it.” Her face hardened, became sharp, inhuman. “I have quite
an imagination, Drake. Don’t believe for a minute I can’t lose you
too if it means losing control.”

She walked away slowly, humming, running a
finger over the newel post as she headed for the kitchen.

Her shadow on the floor was of a woman, dancing;
her shadow on the wall was cobra spreading its hood; the figure
passing through the doorway was a vulture settling its wings.

He tried to move, tried to call her, but he was
trapped and he knew it, and knew there was nothing he could do as
long as he was lost in the amber light.

His mother knew it too.

She knew him as well, had shaped him and trained
him and made certain that he wouldn’t turn out like his father; she
had loved him and nursed him and encased him in debt swaddled in
devotion; she had educated and disciplined and directed and
loved.

The sun rose.

Jill came looking for him, and was told that he
had gone off with some friends first thing that morning and
wouldn’t be back until nightfall.

Kayman Kalb came looking for work, and was set
to sweeping the porch and sidewalk, trimming the edges of the lawn,
sitting with his mother on the porch swing and eating a sandwich
before leaving.

The sun set.

The air cooled.

Jill didn’t return.

And Drake, far from lost in the amber light,
didn’t panic, simply waited.

Tonight.

Tomorrow.

It didn’t matter.

The bulb would burn out or loosen in its socket
the way it always did, the way his father had left it.

He knew where the extra bulbs were, and he had
ridden the carousel, heard the music tin and silver.

All he needed was control.

She would teach him how to use it.

The last hour of the dead; the long graven hour
before the sun bleeds the horizon, when nothing distinguishes tree
from sky, lawn from road, dreams from sitting up and screaming in
the dark; when the day’s weighted heat hasn’t yet begun to simmer;
when birds and cats and large shapeless crows stir for early
hunting, when cattle in a valley bam begin to shift nervously in
their stalls, when chickens in a valley coop begin to talk to one
another, softly, querying, ruffling their feathers, blinking their
eyes; when dark cars in dark driveways begin to grumble in
preparation for a dark ride into light; when the souls that
remember return to their husks, and the souls that forget can’t
find their way home.

In the last hour of the dead.

The house in the middle of the block between
Poplar and Thorn was long and low and feeling its age. Two stories
and dark green, a squat peaked roof and a pair of out-of-true
chimneys, the windows with shutters nailed open, shades drawn
halfway, white curtains tufted and closed. It was overhung with
trees, a few branches brushing the shingles and allowing the
squirrels to take shortcuts at midnight and sometimes find their
way into the attic. Cedar chips scattered around flowering shrubs
on the front lawn. Fat evergreen shrubs hiding the foundation.

The porch, narrow and warped to a slight cant
across the width of the house, had its stairs on the left end,
leading down to a path of three chipped flagstones, which in tum
led to a weed-marked blacktop drive. At the top of the stairs, on
either side, two potted yuccas that nearly touched the flat roof
Gingerbread around the squared posts and window frames. Ivy and
dense fern in clay pots hanging from the ceiling, swinging gently,
chains silent. A large brown cat, indolent, insolent, curled by the
doormat. At the far end, a standing glider, rain-warped,
hinge-rusted, flanked by wrought iron tables to hold ashtrays and
glasses.