Mending the Moon (32 page)

Train? She hadn't seen tracks near here. She staggered to her feet, noting sluggishly that it was dawn, or would have been without so many clouds. The air was thick and green, diseased. She peered in the direction of the train sound, and saw swirling against the darkness a darker funnel.

Oh,
fuck
. “Erasmus, we're in fucking Kansas,” she snarled aloud. “Shit.” What was she going to do? Weren't you supposed to find a bomb shelter or hide under a bed or something in a tornado? But she was outside. Could she dig a hole to hide in?

Not in the time she had, no. Panicking, she threw herself into a ditch, hugging the backpack with Erasmus in it to her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut and curled into a fetal position. If she died, who'd feed Erasmus? If Erasmus died, how would she get her revenge on Cosmos?

Neither of them died, but the tornado passed within yards of them, and when Archipelago emerged wild-eyed and shaking from the ditch, she saw only dirt where she'd hidden the bike. There'd been bushes there. Now there was nothing. The spot had been scoured. Her bike had either been transported to Oz or was scattered in shiny duct-taped bits all over the county.

Archipelago took a deep breath. All right. She'd walked before; she could walk again. Her feet were a lot tougher now. And, she realized, Cosmos would surely be at the scene of the storm destruction. Her heart lifted. As terrifying as the tornado had been, it might make her job simpler. She smiled, and began to follow the path of wreckage the storm had left.

For the next nine issues, though, wherever she showed up, Cosmos had just left. He'd already arrived at the town she found wrecked by the tornado, and he'd also already departed to go back home. When she found her way to Keyhole and knocked on his door, the aide hired to care for Charlie and Vanessa told her that Mr. Cosmos had just left to fly to California, where there'd been some mighty bad wildfires. Would she care to leave a message?

She wouldn't. She couldn't get to California, either. She hunkered down in the countryside outside Keyhole, waiting for Cosmos to come home, but every time she thought she was ready to pounce, something happened. Her pack, with Erasmus in it, was stolen by a biker gang, and she had to stage a hair-raising rescue operation, and when she had her friend back, Cosmos was gone again. She sprained her ankle running after a cricket, and had to spend a week in her increasingly cozy woodland camp with her foot elevated. She had Cosmos in her crosshairs in the parking lot of a supermarket and was ready to stroll up behind him with her venom-tipped dart when a woman with a cart full of potato chips and children got between them for just long enough for Cosmos, clueless, to attain the safety of his car.

Archipelago didn't allow herself to become discouraged, but she did begin entertaining conspiracy theories. “Fucking Entropy's
helping
him,” she told Erasmus. “Gotta be. Every time I get close, some little piece of chaos interferes. The bad guy has his back. How twisted is
that
?”

Maybe she should have been nicer to EE back in the alley in Bumfuck. She'd flipped him the bird, metaphorically speaking, and he was showing her who was boss.

And of course, the moment she thought this, he appeared: darkness visible, galaxies streaming into space, depth, and vastness. The tornado had been a lot scarier. Once, she would have said as much, but if her conspiracy theory was right, she couldn't afford to piss the thing off.

“Oh, all
right,
” she said, glowering up at him. “You win. You da man. I'm in your camp, yessirree bob. You can have my soul or my heart or my firstborn child or any other damn thing, except Erasmus, okay? What'll it be?”

His voice was a distant booming, thunder and theatrics and the threat of bombs. “All I require, daughter, is your acceptance of my sovereignty.”

“Yeah, fine. Is that all? You got it. So listen, can I get a little
help
here?”

In answer, a wind swept through Archipelago's camp, a breeze stiff enough to blow dirt into her face and force her to close her eyes to protect them from debris. She felt something blow against her skin, flattening itself against her neck. When the wind died down enough for her to open her eyes, she peeled the thing away and discovered that it was a photocopied flyer.

Rock, Paper, Scissors Tourney, the paper read. It was in the next county over, not far at all. Next month, which would give her time to get there. And the toastmaster was none other than Comrade Cosmos.

 

17

The last time Rosemary was in Seattle, it was to board the cruise ship headed for Alaska. As far as she knows, that's the last time Veronique was in Seattle, too.

They were there with Melinda. And Walter. The four of them flew up, back in the days when flying was still fun, when you didn't have to get to the airport two hours early and take your shoes off in front of strangers, back when planes had leg room and airlines served real food. Rosemary seems to remember that there was free wine, even, but perhaps her nostalgia's casting an overly rosy glow over the memories. And flying didn't cost a fortune back then, either; there were inexpensive commuter tickets even at the last minute, and no charges for luggage.

Rosemary and Walter often reminisced about that trip, when he could still remember anything. She wonders what Melinda told Jeremy about it.

She's pretty sure that Jeremy's never been to Seattle. He and Amy are poring over a guidebook in the backseat of the van. It's a shiny rental van reeking of New Car, a scent Rosemary has never liked, but one she hears the rental agencies dispense from spray cans into the innards of every vehicle, old or new. Hen's driving, with Tom riding shotgun.

“I'm so psyched about the science-fiction museum!” Amy says happily. The child speaks exclusively in exclamation marks; just listening to her makes Rosemary feel old and tired. “Can we go twice? Once for the CC exhibit and once to see everything else?”

“I dunno, Amy.” Jeremy sounds as sick of this drive as Rosemary feels. Flying to Seattle is so much easier. “We're going there for a funeral. We have to see what happens.”

“Yeah, sure, I'm sorry.” Although Amy's sitting behind Rosemary, Rosemary can hear the blush in her voice. “I didn't mean to be insensitive. It was awfully nice of Mrs. Clark to say we could come.”

Rosemary's curious to meet this woman, so trusting of strangers who have every reason to hate her dead son. “No reporters,” Hen said. “That was her only stipulation. She doesn't want this to turn into a media circus.” If Vera had her way, Rosemary knows, they'd show up with a full press corps and a mob of strangers hurling eggs, tomatoes, and curses at Percy's urn, if not at Percy's parents.

The funeral's on Saturday, but they won't drive back until Monday. Jeremy's taken a week's vacation from the café, and Hen's arranged for an associate priest to preach and celebrate the Eucharist on Sunday. When Veronique fretted about paying a professional pet-sitter to feed her cats, Rosemary got one of the youth group kids to do it. She's paying him, although she hasn't told Vera that.

Airfare for all of them would have been prohibitive even with plenty of notice, so Hen, Tom, and Rosemary chipped in to rent the minivan. Veronique refused. “I only agreed to this damn fool trip because you insisted, Rosemary. If you can't afford to pay my way, I'm not going.” Rosemary's chosen not to tell anyone else about that.

Veronique did pay for their first gas stop, though; maybe it's her way of apologizing.

Hen limited everyone to one suitcase and a small personal item. “Like airline carry-on,” she told them. Well, Rosemary thought, at least we don't have to go through an X-ray machine and take our shoes off to get into the van.

Amy responded to the limitation with typical exuberance. “Cool! It's like
Survivor
! We only get one luxury item!” Her luxury item is her laptop, although Hen could have allowed her two: improbably, given her age and gender, her other piece of luggage is a small rucksack.

Driving's less expensive than flying, but only marginally more comfortable, and it takes a lot longer. They've been on the road for four and a half hours, passing up and down darkly furred slopes bordered with wildflowers. The van's flickered through sunlight and shade, an alternation that should be pleasant, but instead has given Rosemary a headache. They've just stopped in Klamath Falls for lunch, piling with groans out of the van. Rosemary's amazed she managed to hold her bladder for that long, although everyone else in the van makes a beeline for the restrooms, too.

Rosemary hates highway rest stops. Like airports, they're all alike: bright lighting and shiny tile, anonymous and depressing despite cheerful displays of artwork or tourist information. The people there always seem distracted, their minds already on wherever they're going next. Time on the road is lost time, a waste of a commodity already infinitely precious. Whoever said that the point was the journey and not the destination wasn't taking planes or driving on highways.

They have eight more hours to go. After they all pee, Tom will replace Hen in the driver's seat. In another four hours, roughly, she'll take it back again, and finish the trip. They'll stop overnight in Portland if they have to, but Hen wants to do the trip in one day, both to save money and to give them more time in Seattle itself.

Greg, Hen's seminary buddy in Seattle, has invited all of them to stay at his house. He has in-law quarters originally built for a recently deceased mother-in-law, three extra bedrooms—two belonging to children away at college, one a dedicated guest room—a living room and family room, both with sleeper couches, and a finished basement. Hen, Tom, Jeremy, and Amy have brought sleeping bags. “Oh, we'll work it out,” Hen said cheerfully of the sleeping arrangements.

Rosemary wonders how a priest can afford a house that size in Seattle. It's like those TV shows where New York City editorial assistants live in Park Avenue penthouse apartments. Well, maybe he inherited money, or married it.

Dibs on the in-law quarters, Rosemary thinks. She hasn't said it yet. She knows that Vera probably wants them, too. Maybe she and Vera can share them, although at this point, Vera would rebel against that. Once it might have seemed like a slumber party; now, even after Rosemary's confession, Vera's likely to believe that she's under surveillance.

*   *   *

Jeremy hates riding in backseats; they make him claustrophobic. He knows the others would let him sit in front if he asked, and maybe he will at the next stop, but back here, at least he can sit with Amy, who wouldn't be making the trip if it weren't for him. And right now, he couldn't move if he wanted to. Amy's dozing, her head pillowed against his shoulder, which has gone to sleep in apparent sympathy. He likes Amy a lot, but this isn't helping his claustrophobia any.

“Jeremy,” VB says, “you doing okay back there?”

“Sure.” She's been extra solicitous the whole trip, as if she's trying to take care of him. He doesn't even know why she's here. She's told everybody often enough that she has no sympathy for Percy or his family. There's a weird vibe between her and Aunt Rosie, and he wonders if Rosie somehow made VB come to keep tabs on her. He can't imagine VB doing anything she doesn't want to, though, and he doesn't know how Rosie could force her.

He still doesn't like VB, but he has to hand it to her for pulling off that Planet X caper. The potter told Jeremy about that when he and Rosie showed up to check on her: how when the police arrived at the guesthouse, VB came to the door wrapped in a blanket and informed them regally that she was fine, thank you, and that Rosemary Watkins should mind her own damn business. VB sent the two of them away, too, just as Jeremy had predicted. Good for her.

This new VB, the one who speaks her mind even when other people don't like it, is a lot more interesting than the old one, who just sat and glared at you like she had a stick up her ass. The old VB always made Jeremy feel like he'd done something wrong that she wasn't going to tell him about, just to make him feel stupid for not already knowing it. Now she lets people know what's bothering her. She shouldn't have lost it in class like that, but Jeremy still respects her a lot more than he used to.

“All right,” she says. “But listen, Jeremy, if you decide you don't want to go to the funeral, you don't have to. I'm not going, that's for sure. We can sit it out together.”

“If I change my mind, I'll let you know. I don't think I will.” He wants to go. He needs some sense of Percy beyond what they've all seen in the papers: the handsome, smiling photos, the popular and privileged honors student who somehow stumbled sideways into insanity. Jeremy thinks he'd go crazy if he didn't know who killed Mom, because he'd keep imagining different people, keep wondering if anyone he passed on the street could be the murderer. Having a name is a relief. Now he wants more than that. He wants—

He doesn't know what he wants, exactly, except that he's pretty sure it isn't revenge, which wouldn't work anyway, because Percy's already dead. He isn't glad that Percy's dead, exactly, not that he's sorry either. He doesn't know what he feels. Everything about Percy evokes a numb horror in him, and the numbness is threatening to spread out and infect the rest of his life, as if EE has injected some mad-scientist virus into his bloodstream. He wants to go to the funeral to meet people who aren't numb about Percy. He wants to plug Percy into some earth-normal context: family, friends.

He doesn't know if this is the right thing to do. He can't be sure he won't start screaming halfway through the service, although he's made a promise to himself that he'll leave instead of making a scene. He doesn't need to pull a VB.

Looking down, he realizes that he has a more immediate problem. Amy's begun to snore softly, and a shining slug's trail of saliva descends from her lower lip onto his T-shirt. If he wakes her up to tell her she's drooling, she'll be embarrassed. If he doesn't wake her up, she'll be more embarrassed when she finally wakes up on her own, and he'll be wetter. He shifts to get more comfortable, hoping the movement will waken her. It doesn't.