The Servants of Twilight (3 page)
Finally the old woman raised her head and looked at Christine.
Christine started to smile but stopped when she saw the stranger’s eyes. They were hard, cold, angry. They were neither the eyes of a grandmother nor those of a harmless old bag lady. There was power in them—and stubbornness and flinty resolve. The woman wasn’t smiling anymore, either.
What’s going on here?
Before Christine could speak, the woman said, “He
was
born on Christmas Eve, wasn’t he? Hmmm? Wasn’t he?” She spoke with such urgency, with such force that she sprayed spittle at Christine. She didn’t wait for an answer, either, but hurried on: “You’re lying about February second. You’re just trying to hide, both of you, but I know the truth. I
know
. You can’t fool me. Not
me
.”
was
born on Christmas Eve, wasn’t he? Hmmm? Wasn’t he?” She spoke with such urgency, with such force that she sprayed spittle at Christine. She didn’t wait for an answer, either, but hurried on: “You’re lying about February second. You’re just trying to hide, both of you, but I know the truth. I
know
. You can’t fool me. Not
me
.”
Suddenly she seemed dangerous, after all.
Christine put a hand on Joey’s shoulder and urged him around the crone, toward the car.
But the woman stepped sideways, blocking them. She waved her cigarette at Joey, glared at him, and said, “I know who you are. I know
what
you are, everything about you, everything. Better believe it. Oh, yes, yes, I know, yes.”
what
you are, everything about you, everything. Better believe it. Oh, yes, yes, I know, yes.”
A nut, Christine thought, and her stomach twisted. Jesus. A crazy old lady, the kind who might be capable of anything. God, please let her be harmless.
Looking bewildered, Joey backed away from the woman, grabbed his mother’s hand and squeezed tight.
“Please get out of our way,” Christine said, trying to maintain a calm and reasonable tone of voice, wanting very much not to antagonize.
The old woman refused to move. She brought the cigarette to her lips. Her hand was shaking.
Holding Joey’s hand, Christine tried to go around the stranger.
But again the woman blocked them. She puffed nervously on her cigarette and blew smoke out her nostrils. She never took her eyes off Joey.
Christine looked around the parking lot. A few people were getting out of a car two rows away, and two young men were at the end of this row, heading in the other direction, but no one was near enough to help if the crazy woman became violent.
Throwing down her cigarette, hyperventilating, eyes bulging, looking like a big malicious toad, the woman said, “Oh, yeah, I know your ugly, vicious, hateful secrets, you little fraud.”
Christine’s heart began to hammer.
“Get out of our way,” she said sharply, no longer trying to remain—or even
able
to remain—calm.
able
to remain—calm.
“You can’t fool me with your play-acting—”
Joey began to cry.
“—and your phony cuteness. Tears won’t help, either.”
For the third time, Christine tried to go around the woman—and was blocked again.
The harridan’s face hardened in anger. “I know exactly what you are, you little monster.”
Christine shoved, and the old woman stumbled backward.
Pulling Joey with her, Christine hurried to the car, feeling as if she were in a nightmare, running in slow-motion.
The car door was locked. She was a compulsive doorlocker.
She wished that, for once, she had been careless.
The old woman scuttled in behind them, shouting something that Christine couldn’t hear because her ears were filled with the frantic pounding of her heart and with Joey’s crying.
“Mom!”
Joey was almost jerked out of her grasp. The old woman had her talons hooked in his shirt.
“Let go of him, damn you!” Christine said.
“Admit it!” the old woman shrieked at him. “Admit what you are!”
Christine shoved again.
The woman wouldn’t let go.
Christine struck her, open-handed, first on the shoulder, then across the face.
The old woman tottered backward, and Joey twisted away from her, and his shirt tore.
Somehow, even with shaking hands, Christine fitted the key into the lock, opened the car door, pushed Joey inside. He scrambled across to the passenger’s seat, and she got behind the wheel and pulled the door shut with immense relief. Locked it.
The old woman peered in the driver’s-side window. “Listen to me!” she shouted. “Listen!”
Christine jammed the key in the ignition, switched it on, pumped the accelerator. The engine roared.
With one milk-white fist, the crazy woman thumped the roof of the car. Again. And again.
Christine put the Firebird in gear and backed out of the parking space, moving slowly, not wanting to hurt the old woman, just wanting to get the hell away from her.
The lunatic followed, shuffling along, bent over, holding on to the door handle, glaring at Christine. “He’s got to die. He’s got to die.”
Sobbing, Joey said, “Mom, don’t let her get me!”
“She won’t get you, honey,” Christine said, her mouth so dry that she was barely able to get the words out.
The boy huddled against his locked door, eyes streaming tears but open wide and fixed on the contorted face of the stringy-haired harpy at his mother’s window.
Still in reverse, Christine accelerated a bit, turned the wheel, and nearly backed into another car that was coming slowly down the row. The other driver blew his horn, and Christine stopped just in time, with a harsh bark of brakes.
“He’s got to die!”
the old woman screamed. She slammed the side of one pale fist into the window almost hard enough to break the glass.
the old woman screamed. She slammed the side of one pale fist into the window almost hard enough to break the glass.
This can’t be happening, Christine thought. Not on a sunny Sunday. Not in peaceful Costa Mesa.
The old woman struck the window again.
“He’s got to die!”
Spittle sprayed the glass.
Christine had the car in gear and was moving away, but the old woman held on. Christine accelerated. Still, the woman kept a grip on the door handle, slid and ran and stumbled along with the car, ten feet, twenty, thirty feet, faster, faster still. Christ, was she human? Where did such an old woman find the strength and tenacity to hold on like this? She leered in through the side window, and there was such ferocity in her eyes that it wouldn’t have surprised Christine if, in spite of her size and age, the hag had torn the door off. But at last she let go with a howl of anger and frustration.
At the end of the row, Christine turned right. She drove too fast through the parking lot, and in less than a minute they were away from the mall, on Bristol Street, heading north.
Joey was still crying, though more softly than before.
“It’s all right, sweetheart. It’s okay now. She’s gone.”
She drove to MacArthur Boulevard, turned right, went three blocks, repeatedly glancing in the rearview mirror to see if they were being followed, even though she knew there wasn’t much chance of that. Finally she pulled over to the curb and stopped.
She was shaking. She hoped Joey wouldn’t notice.
Pulling a Kleenex from the small box on the console, she said, “Here you are, honey. Dry your eyes, blow your nose, and be brave for Mommy. Okay?”
“Okay,” he said, accepting the tissue. Shortly, he was composed.
“Feeling better?” she asked.
“Yeah. Sorta.”
“Scared?”
“I was.”
“But not now?”
He shook his head.
“You know,” Christine said, “she really didn’t mean all those nasty things she said to you.”
He looked at her, puzzled. His lower lip trembled, but his voice was steady. “Then why’d she say it if she didn’t mean it?”
“Well, she couldn’t help herself. She was a sick lady.”
“You mean . . . like sick with the flu?”
“No, honey. I mean . . . mentally ill . . . disturbed.”
“She was a real Looney Tune, huh?”
He had gotten that expression from Val Gardner, Christine’s business partner. This was the first time she’d heard him use it, and she wondered what other, less socially acceptable words he might have picked up from the same source.
“Was she a real Looney Tune, Mom? Was she crazy?”
“Mentally disturbed, yes.”
He frowned.
She said, “That doesn’t make it any easier to understand, huh?”
“Nope. ’Cause what does crazy really mean, anyway, if it doesn’t mean being locked up in a rubber room? And even if she was a crazy old lady, why was she so mad at me? Huh? I never even saw her before.”
“Well . . .”
How do you explain psychotic behavior to a six-year-old? She could think of no way to do it without being ridiculously simplistic; however, in this case, a simplistic answer was better than none.
“Maybe she once had a little boy of her own, a little boy she loved very much, but maybe he wasn’t a good little boy like you. Maybe he grew up to be very bad and did a lot of terrible things that broke his mother’s heart. Something like that could . . . unbalance her a little.”
“So now maybe she hates
all
little boys, whether she knows them or not,” he said.
all
little boys, whether she knows them or not,” he said.
“Yes, perhaps.”
“Because they remind her of her own little boy? Is that it?”
“That’s right.”
He thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. I can sorta see how that could be.”
She smiled at him and mussed his hair. “Hey, I’ll tell you what—let’s stop at Baskin-Robbins and get an ice cream cone. I think their flavor of the month is peanut butter and chocolate. That’s one of your favorites, isn’t it?”
He was obviously surprised. She didn’t approve of too much fat in his diet, and she planned his meals carefully. Ice cream wasn’t a frequent indulgence. He seized the moment and said, “Could I have one scoop of that and one scoop of lemon custard?”
“
Two
scoops?”
Two
scoops?”
“It’s Sunday,” he said.
“Last time I looked, Sunday wasn’t so all-fired special. There’s one of them every week. Or has that changed while I wasn’t paying attention?”
“Well . . . but . . . see, I’ve just had . . .” He screwed up his face, thinking hard. He worked his mouth as if chewing on a piece of taffy, then said, “I’ve just had a . . . a traumamatatic experience.”
“Traumatic experience?”
“Yeah. That’s it.”
She blinked at him. “Where’d you get a big word like that? Oh. Of course. Never mind. Val.”
According to Valerie Gardner, who was given to theatrics, just getting up in the morning was a traumatic experience. Val had about half a dozen traumatic experiences every day—and thrived on them.
“So it’s Sunday, and I had this traumatic experience,” Joey said, “and I think maybe what I better do is, I better have two scoops of ice cream to make up for it. You know?”
“I know I’d better not hear about
another
traumatic experience for at least ten years.”
another
traumatic experience for at least ten years.”
“What about the ice cream?”
She looked at his torn shirt. “Two scoops,” she agreed.
“Wow! This is some terrific day, isn’t it? A real Looney Tune
and
a double-dip ice cream!”
and
a double-dip ice cream!”
Christine never ceased to be amazed by the resiliency of children, especially the resiliency of this child. Already, in his mind, he had transmuted the encounter with the old woman, had changed it from a moment of terror to an adventure that was not quite—but almost—as good as a visit to an ice cream parlor.
“You’re some kid,” she said.
“You’re some mom.”
He turned on the radio and hummed along happily with the music, all the way to Baskin-Robbins.
Christine kept checking the rearview mirror. No one was following them. She was sure of that. But she kept checking anyway.
2
After a light
dinner at the kitchen table with Joey, Christine went to her desk in the den to catch up on paperwork. She and Val Gardner owned a gourmet shop called Wine & Dine in Newport Beach, where they sold fine wines, specialty foods from all over the world, high quality cooking utensils, and slightly exotic appliances like pasta-makers and espresso machines. The store was in its sixth year of operation and was solidly established; in fact, it was returning considerably more profit than either Christine or Val had ever dared hope when they’d first opened their doors for business. Now, they were planning to open a second outlet this summer, then a third store in West Los Angeles sometime next year. Their success was exciting and gratifying, but the business demanded an ever-increasing amount of their time. This wasn’t the first weekend evening that she had spent catching up on paperwork.
dinner at the kitchen table with Joey, Christine went to her desk in the den to catch up on paperwork. She and Val Gardner owned a gourmet shop called Wine & Dine in Newport Beach, where they sold fine wines, specialty foods from all over the world, high quality cooking utensils, and slightly exotic appliances like pasta-makers and espresso machines. The store was in its sixth year of operation and was solidly established; in fact, it was returning considerably more profit than either Christine or Val had ever dared hope when they’d first opened their doors for business. Now, they were planning to open a second outlet this summer, then a third store in West Los Angeles sometime next year. Their success was exciting and gratifying, but the business demanded an ever-increasing amount of their time. This wasn’t the first weekend evening that she had spent catching up on paperwork.
She wasn’t complaining. Before Wine & Dine, she had worked as a waitress, six days a week, holding down two jobs at the same time: a four-hour lunch shift in a diner and a six-hour dinner shift at a moderately expensive French restaurant, Chez Lavelle. Because she was a polite and attentive waitress who hustled her butt off, the tips had been good at the diner and excellent at Chez Lavelle, but after a few years the work numbed and aged her: the sixty-hour weeks; the busboys who often came to work so high on drugs that she had to cover for them and do two jobs instead of one; the lecherous guys who ate lunch at the diner and who could be gross and obnoxious and frighteningly persistent, but who had to be turned down with coquettish good humor for the sake of business. She spent so many hours on her feet that, on her day off, she did nothing but sit with her aching legs raised on an ottoman while she read the Sunday papers with special attention to the financial section, dreaming of one day owning her
own
business.
own
business.
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