Long Black Curl (13 page)

He watched her, his eyes glistening with new tears, although now she wasn't sure of the cause, except that she was certain it was not regret.

“I ain't like that, Rockhouse,” she continued. “I just ain't. And if that's what it takes to hold the Tufa together, then we're just doomed to split apart, because I won't do it. You think that makes me weak, don't you? You've always thought I was. At first it was because I was a child, then because I was a girl, and now because I won't be as ruthless as you. But here's something you don't know: ‘Weak' ain't the same thing as ‘not evil.'”

Suddenly he grabbed her throat with his bandaged hand.

She met the old man's angry, spiteful gaze. His grip was feeble, even on her thin neck, and she knew she was in no danger. He wasn't even able to cut off her wind. She began to sing softly,

The Gypsies came to our lord's house,

And oh! but they sang bonny,

They sang so sweet and so complete

That down came our fair lady;

When she came tripping down the stair,

With all her maids before her,

As soon as they saw her lovely face,

They cast their glamour on her.

As her voice rose in volume and intensity, his hand fell away. Something changed in the room. Power was shifting, and the words of the song were telling a story completely unrelated to the fate of Johnny Faa and his highborn lady.

At last Mandalay finished, holding the last note in a pure, high voice that rang like a bell, or a choir. As it faded, Rockhouse's eyes closed and he let out a long, final sigh.

The room was silent for a long time, except for the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. At last the garage door opened and Bliss stuck in her head. “Can I come back in?”

“Yes,” Mandalay said.

Bliss had seen plenty of corpses in her time, and had no trouble recognizing one from across the room. “Is he dead?” she asked, already certain of the answer.

“As dead as he ever could be,” Mandalay said. There was a cold determination in her voice that came not from the twelve-year-old girl, but from all the eons she'd existed before now. “And we're gonna bury him.”

Bliss stood beside the girl and looked down at the old man's slack face. “It's going to be a completely different world without him in it.”

“A better one, I hope.”

“That'll be up to you.”

Mandalay said nothing.

While Bliss went to arrange for a backhoe to dig the grave in the cold ground, Mandalay stayed with Rockhouse's corpse. She stuffed her hands back in her jeans pockets and regarded the lined, aged face now slack and lifeless on the gurney.

“Well, old man,” she said, “we've had quite the run. You were right, as it turns out; none of us could touch you. You were invincible. It took something you couldn't have imagined to finally bring you down.”

Her voice dropped. “But you know what? I fucking
hate
you still. I hate you for what you did to all my ancestors, for all the women who carried what I carry and wanted to use it. I hate you for all the girls you groped, and humiliated, and molested, and ruined. I hate you for what you did to your own daughter, and I can't tell you how happy I was when that flatlander sang your dying dirge. If ever someone deserved it, asshole, it was you.”

She bent and whispered into his lifeless ear. “And I want you to think about all this while you lie in your grave, Rockhouse. While you hear the faint songs of everyone else, and know that you'll never sing along, that you'll never walk these hills, that you'll never fly on the night winds again. I want you to think about the look on all those agonized faces, the cries and begging, the sheer
pain
you brought to the world out of your own meanness and self-pity. As you rot, I want you to think about it. And I hope you soak the fucking world to its core with your tears.”

She stood up as Bliss returned. “It's all arranged. We'll bury him up on Redford's Ridge.”

Mandalay nodded. “Call Reverend Chess and ask him to come say a few Christian words, too. Be sure and tell him it's a private service, so not to spread the word.”

Bliss's eyebrows rose. “Are you serious?”

“He's married to Bronwyn. Her daughter … Well, he's the kind of man who'll love that girl when she's born no matter how she was gotten on her mother. He's a good man, and being involved with this will make him feel accepted.”

“Then I'll call Bronwyn.”

“No. Call
him.
I want it to come from you.”

“Why?”

“So he can refuse. He'd never turn down his wife.”

“But you said—”

Mandalay smiled and held up a hand. “Bliss, I know a lot, but not everything. I want something good to come out of this withered bastard's death, and if it means we find out that Craig Chess really is worthy of helping raise Bronwyn's daughter—and I think he is, or I wouldn't suggest this—then I think we should take the chance. The worst thing that can happen is that he says no.”

“How bad would that really be?”

Mandalay's expression hardened. “Well … it means we couldn't let him stick around.”

Bliss said nothing. The thought of what
that
meant—and of forcing headstrong and obstinate Bronwyn to choose between her people and her husband—was something she couldn't really devote a lot of thought to at the moment. “Excuse me, then. I'll go call him. I suppose it's okay to explain all this to Bronwyn if he says yes?”

Mandalay nodded.

When she was alone with Rockhouse again, Mandalay said, “See, old man? Not only can't you do any more damage, you will actually be helping us do good. That must gall you no end.” She softly sang the last line of his dying dirge, just as the flatlander had done the year before to destroy Rockhouse's hold on power: “You can do no harm while ye be here.” Then she kissed him on his forehead.

 

9

Reflecting the power dynamic in their relationship, Bo-Kate fell asleep almost immediately after they made love, an arm draped affectionately—or possessively, he wasn't sure which—across Nigel's chest. She snored lightly, and the gentle tang of her sweat filled his nostrils.

He stared up at the canopy over the bed. He was wide awake, the aftereffects of their typically terrific sex shooting through him like the heroin he'd tried once as a teen. He'd been able to walk away from that; Bo-Kate, though, was far more addictive. And, he mulled, much worse for him in the long run.

He hadn't noticed the canopy's design before, but it seemed to be some sort of forest scene; with the drapes drawn and no digital clock or other electronic devices to provide any ambient light, he couldn't quite make out the details in the darkness. If it echoed the decor of the rest of the room, it was probably something princess-y, possibly with unicorns and knights in shining armor. Then again, given what she'd told him about the Tufa, perhaps it showed fairies frolicking in the woods, cavorting with young men and leading them in dances that would while away years from their lives.

Eventually, he accepted that sleep would not come. The image of those severed fingers in a baggy, like some cannibal child's after-school snack, was just too nightmarish. He carefully slid out from beneath Bo-Kate's arm, then waited until he was sure he hadn't awakened her. He got up, pulled on his trousers and shirt, and slipped into the hall looking for the bathroom.

The house was eerily quiet; after so many years living in cities, Nigel had forgotten how quiet the country could be. No traffic noises, airplanes overhead, or trains passing nearby marred the night. Since it was winter, there weren't even chirping crickets. Just the ever-present wind, at the moment blowing so softly that it, too, might be asleep.

Then a long, low cry rang out. He recognized it as the hoot of an owl, probably in one of the trees right outside. As he stood there in the dark, it seemed to him like the sound of a lost soul looking for redemption. What was that Carole King line?
Like a fallen angel when rising time is near.

He almost yelped aloud as a door opened and a shaft of light cut into the hallway. Tain stepped out and closed the door until only a sliver of illumination remained.

She wore a thin cotton robe tied loosely—
very
loosely—at the waist, and nothing else. If the robe gapped any wider, she might as well have been naked, but she made no move to close it when she saw him. If anything, she stood provocatively, enhancing its effect, and the indirect lighting cast shadows that accented every flawless curve. Certainly her smile revealed no shame.

“Well, if it ain't the executive assistant,” she said quietly, and tossed her dark hair behind her shoulders. There was a throaty rumble in her voice, like a growl or a purr.

“Indeed. I'm looking for the loo.”

“The what?”

“The facilities. The bathroom.”

“You probably want to put your boots on, too, then. It's outside.”

“Outside? As in, outside the house?”

“Yep. Go down the stairs, through the kitchen, and out the back door. Can't miss it. There's a crescent moon carved into the door.”

“Am I to believe you people actually use an
outhouse
?”

“We do.”

“I thought that was a clich
é
, like going barefoot and having bad teeth.”

Tain raised one foot, which caused her robe to slide back and reveal the full expanse of one smooth leg. “I don't wear shoes unless I'm going to town for something. And even then only when I have to stop at the Catamount Corner, because otherwise Miss Peggy will yell at me.” She lowered her leg. “And as I recall, you English got your share of bad teeth, too.”

“True enough.”

Tain smiled, showing her own perfect, even teeth. “Well, we ain't got to worry about that. You won't find a Tufa with bad teeth unless something's knocked 'em out.” She tossed her hair again. “So you still going to the outhouse?”

“I suppose so, if that's the only available option. You are aware this is the twenty-first century?”

“Pipes freeze in the winter no matter what year it is. And time don't work the same for everybody. Ain't Bo-Kate explained that to you?”

“She mentioned that. I assumed it was a metaphor.”

“What's that? Is that like Campho-Phenique?”

“Not quite.”

Tain came closer. Her breasts swayed beneath the robe, thoroughly distracting him. “You know, ain't never been a nigger in this house before.”

“And if you insist on using that word, there likely won't be again for a very long time.” It took all his resolve to keep his gaze above her neck.

“What word should I use? Handsome? Studly?” She put a hand lightly on his chest. “Fine as frog's hair?”

He laughed. “That last might not be that good, either, although I appreciate the sentiment.” He removed her hand. A gust of winter wind howled outside, and he said, “Aren't you cold in something so … flimsy?”

“I don't get cold.” She ran a finger along the edge of the robe's lapel.

“Ever?”

“Hardly ever. I been told I run pretty … hot. Are
you
cold?”

“It's a bit brisk.”

He could see her nipples through the thin fabric. She lowered her chin and looked up at him, “You know, Bo-Kate ain't the only … accommodating woman in this house.” She lightly bit her lip, all at once demure and compliant. “Be awful bad manners to leave a guest cold on a winter's night.”

Despite having just trysted with Bo-Kate, Nigel found himself ready again. There was a tingle in the very air, a kind of erotic ozone that he'd felt with certain women before; and those women had been among the most exciting experiences of his life. But with them, the charge had been faint, and subtle. With Tain, it was almost like a lightning strike.

It wouldn't do to jump into bed with the cousin Bo-Kate clearly didn't get along with, though. He tried not to think about untying the belt on that robe and said, “I appreciate the offer, but I don't think it would be very appropriate. Bo-Kate is very clear about which lines one should not cross.”

“Has Bo-Kate already wrung you out?”

“Pithy, but accurate.”

“Well, I bet I could get that motor started again.”

“Again, probably accurate, but not appropriate.”

Her little smile was as carnal as some women's orgasm face. “She ain't never gonna know unless you tell her. And I promise, you won't regret it. It'll be a memory to keep you warm on the next cold night like this.”

“You're certainly warming me up right now,” he admitted. “But
I'd
know what we did, and I fear I couldn't look at myself in the mirror.”

Tain's grin widened. “Ain't you the prize. Did Bo-Kate tell you the story about why she ain't been back here in so long?”

“I believe it involved a young man from a family of whom her parents did not approve.”

Tain laughed. “Well, that's true enough. But that ain't near the whole story.” Then she raised her chin, closed her eyes, and sang in a soft, pure contralto:

About eight o'clock, boys, our dogs they throwed off

Beneath the Widow's Tree, and that was the spot

They tried all the bushes but nothing they found

But a poor murdered woman laid on the cold ground.

Then she looked back at him. “She ever sang that song to you?”

“I don't believe so.”

“You need to ask her 'bout that.” Then Tain's eyes narrowed. “Wait … I bet she ain't really told you nothin' 'bout nothin', has she?”

“I don't feel it's my place to say.”