Spellbinder (11 page)

Which began, really:
Because her fingers told her so.

THE BIBLE TOLD HER SO.

But why was she crying? Because now she remembered the first part:

Yes, Jesus loves me

Yes, Jesus loves me.

And so, because Jesus had loved her, the son was there. In this room, standing over her. Saying: “Talk to me, goddammit.”

Cruelly. Cruelly.

So now she must scream. Nothing. Anything. Something. But scream.
Now.

“Goddammit, shut up.”

She could see his hands, drawing back.

“
Shut up
.”

She heard the words through a sudden crash, flesh against flesh, bone on bone. Blinding her.

“Shut up, I said.”

And now, with his angel’s face close to hers, she could hear him say, “I want the money. Those envelopes. They’re mine, now. They’re for me.”

But did he love her?

Or had love gone with the sound of thunder, rolling off across the sky to leave her without the voice she’d found?

“Does Julian have it? Is that it? Uncle Julian—does he have the money? Do the envelopes go to him now?”

How could she answer? With the thunder gone, nothing was left for her. No voice. No hope.

“Just nod, goddammit. Or shake your head. One or the other. Or else—” The hand came back. That hard, heavy hand, so cruel for an angel’s.

“Is that it?”

Now the room was moving up and down, keeping time to her head, nodding. And, finally, with her head bowed, she heard the sound of footsteps departing.

So, softly, while she stared down at the small drops of blood on the floor, she could cry.

H
E DRAPED THE DAMP
, heavy cloth over the wire drying line, and reached in the hopper for two more cloths, one for each hand. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a green Buick station wagon emerging from the strips of heavy canvas that hung across the exit. Blasts of steamy air rippled the canvas. “Dragon’s breath,” they called it. And the wail of machinery was the dragon’s voice, a constant, angry roar.

A black teen-ager—Willard—sprang into the Buick, started the car and drove it to the right of the wide concrete driveway. The Buick’s owner, a slim woman wearing fifty-dollar denims and a hundred-dollar bush jacket, advanced toward the car, raising her wrist to look at her watch. She was late. Wearing her expensive clothes, driving her new Buick, the whole world waited for her. Anything she wanted, she could get. It was plain in every movement of her body, every line of her clothing.

For today—his third day on the job—this car was his last.

The Buick dived as Willard set the parking brake. Before the driver’s door had slammed, Junior Frazer was wiping at the car’s roof, on the right side. Frazer’s side was always the right. The left side was his.

“Hey, man—come on. Let’s
do
it, Jimmy.” Frazer’s strong, velvet-brown arms curved and corded as his two drying rags swept across the gleaming green metal. Frazer was eighteen years old. He’d never had a full-time job before. Pleasure was plain in every move he made, every quick, deft switch of his twin drying cloths.

“Come on, Jimmy, let’s dry this mother
off
.”

In all his life, except when he was very young, no one had called him “Jimmy.”

Now he was leaning against the car’s left door, sweeping his own rags across the roof. Some of the roof on his side was already dry.

Thank you, Junior Frazer, you dumb black bastard with one tooth missing in front.

Thank you, Junior Frazer, you big-lipped black ape.

As he began on the hood, Junior was already on the trunk, and now moving around toward the left rear fender. Apes were good workers. They’d been bred for work like this.

Junior and Jimmy. The perfect team. Master and slave.

Behind him the conveyor clanked and the canvas strips blew open again as another car emerged from the dryer—a white Lincoln, with a gleaming black top.

But not his. Some other slave’s. Not his.

He turned away, draped the two cloths over the drying wire, and strode to the time clock.

In all his life, he’d never punched a time clock. Not until now, his twenty-sixth year.

A small slip of paper was clipped to the time card:

See me before you go home.

Krober

Through the plate-glass window of the office, he saw Krober waiting for him. The master, waiting for the slave.

He slid the card into the clock, waited for the mechanism to click, slid the card back into the rack. Slid the slip of paper into his pocket—turned the knob and opened the plate-glass door of the manager’s office.

Krober was a tall man with a narrow face, unhappy eyes and a knife scar across one cheek. Two years ago, the car wash had been robbed. Krober had been cut across the cheek and stomach. He’d been left for dead, he said, on the floor of the office.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Yeah, Carson, I did.” Krober pushed himself back in his chair, bracing both hands on the edge of his chipped steel desk. He sighed once, deeply and regretfully, before he said, “I’m afraid you’re just not working out, Carson. I’m sorry. Real sorry. I’ve known your uncle for years, from the lodge. And I’d like to help. But we got quotas here, you know. Performance figures. And if somebody doesn’t keep to his quota, then the others complain. And that’s what’s been happening. There’ve been complaints. Several.” As he spoke, Krober kept his eyes fixed on the desk in front of him.

“The nigras, you mean. They complain.”

Krober raised his bony shoulders, unhappily shrugging.

“When do I get paid?”

“Come by tomorrow. About three. I’ll have it for you then. I’m sorry, Carson. And tell your uncle about the quotas, you mind? Tell him it’s nothing personal. Which it isn’t. Nothing personal at all.”

Without speaking, he turned and left the office, carefully closing the door behind him.

Insects were already chirping in the gathering dusk as he mounted the two stairs to Uncle Julian’s front porch. Inside the big house, lights shone from all the downstairs windows. In the large living room, to the left, lamplight filtered through heavy velvet drapes, fringed in gold. The light made the velvet glow, a deep rich red.

He pressed the bell button. Almost immediately, he heard footsteps approaching: hard, heavy footsteps. Uncle Julian was coming. As the door swung open, he realized that he’d stepped back into the shadow of a pillar. He saw Julian’s eyes momentarily narrow, staring into the gathering darkness. Then, as he stepped forward, he saw his uncle’s eyes widen as displeasure replaced puzzlement.

“Oh—James.”

The disapproval so plain in the two words said it all. Yes, Krober had called Uncle Julian. Yes, Uncle Julian was angry.

“Come in, James.” It was a reluctant, resigned invitation. Stepping back, his uncle held the door open. “Come into the study. There, on the right. The closed door. Yes, that’s right.”

He opened the door, found the light switch, flicked it. The room was small, its walls lined on two sides with bookshelves. The books came from a book club, his uncle had once told him, one book a month. The room’s only furnishings were two leather armchairs, a leather-topped walnut desk and a smaller chair placed behind the desk. A miniature grandfather’s clock stood on the desk, together with two identically framed pictures. The pictures were enlarged snapshots of Uncle Julian and his family.

“Sit down, James.” Behind him, Uncle Julian’s voice was heavy and slow, expressing a deep, ponderous regret. As he sank into one of the two armchairs, he heard the door close: a solid, somber sound, like a cell door closing. Now his uncle was rounding the desk, sitting down to face him squarely. Uncle Julian was dressed in a sports jacket and sports shirt. An ornamental cord secured by a small sliding medallion. It was an Elks medallion. So, tonight, Uncle Julian—a past president—was going to the Elks club. Carson glanced at the miniature grandfather’s clock. The time was eight-thirty. What was the night’s entertainment at the Elks club? Was it a smoker?

Smoothing his sparse hair over his round, shining skull with one pudgy hand, Uncle Julian was slowly, ponderously shaking his head.

“I was afraid of this, James. I was afraid this would happen.

“It was the nigras. There’s almost all nigras working there. They complained about me. Because I’m white.”

Somberly regretful, his uncle sighed: a deep, disapproving sigh. Appeal denied.

“That’s not what Henry Krober said.”

“Then Henry Krober is a liar.”

“
What
?”

“I said Krober is a liar, if he says the nigras didn’t complain about me. Because they did.”

“Henry Krober said you weren’t doing the job. He said you worked too slow.”

“That’s what the nigras said. He believes the nigras because he wants to keep them working for him. That’s because he doesn’t have to pay them anything. Just like he didn’t pay me anything.”

“Now, see here, James—” It was the beginning of a hard-voiced, hard-eyed warning. Sympathy denied. Understanding denied. Blood-tie denied. Always, his uncle had been on the other side, an enemy.

“It’s not a fit job for a white man, washing cars.” As he said it, he saw Uncle Julian’s face suddenly flush. The close-set eyes contracted. The small, pursed mouth came set, suddenly hard and angry.

Always, when his temper rose, Julian’s voice sunk to a soft, silky note, deadly as the sound of a slithering snake:

“You’re a paroled convict, James. You’re lucky to get any job. Any job at all.”

“Am I supposed to work with niggers?”

“If I say so, then that’s what you’re supposed to do. And, in the meantime, I’ll thank you not to call Henry Krober a liar. You might not be aware of it, but he’s a lodge brother of mine.”

He raised his head until his eyes were level with his uncle’s, coldly staring. Let him see it all—the hatred he felt, and the determination. Let him see all the angry years, and all the silent vows of vengeance. Let him realize—now—that this was the moment everything between them changed.

In the silence, he heard the miniature clock ticking. He could hear the sound of his uncle’s breath coming harder.

Until he saw the narrow-set pig eyes falter, steady, then falter again—and finally fall.

So now, speaking in a low, deliberate voice, tightly controlled, he could say what he’d come to say:

“I saw my mother, Sunday.”

A long, watchful moment of silence followed. Then, still snake-soft: “Your mother’s crazy, James.”

“She said you’re taking her money. The money she gets every month. The checks.” His voice, too, was ominously soft. Again their eyes locked. And now, deep inside his uncle’s eyes, he saw the first flicker of fear beginning.

So, to conceal it, the other man’s voice suddenly rose, bullying him now:

“Your mother’s crazy. You can’t believe anything she says. Nothing.”

“She’s not getting those checks. They wouldn’t let her have them. So you must be getting them. You’re the only one.”

Now he could see momentary uncertainty in his uncle’s eyes—followed by calm, cold calculation. They were talking about money, Julian’s specialty. So Julian’s voice dropped to a deeper, more confident note as he said, “Those checks don’t have anything to do with you. They’re for your mother, to keep her. And I’m keeping her now. I’m responsible for her, just like I’m responsible for you. So they’re my checks now. I’ve got her power of attorney. They’ve got nothing to do with you. Nothing at all.”

“They’re to keep me, too. My mother, and me. Now she doesn’t need them. But I do.”

“What the hell you talking about, she doesn’t need them? She needs them more than ever, boy. And you’d better remember it.”

“Don’t call me ‘boy,’ Uncle Julian.”

“Well, then you’d better start talking sense.”

Now the old, easy bluster had come back in Julian’s voice. The flicker of fearful uncertainty had died.

So, quietly, he said: “Where does she get those checks, Uncle Julian? Where do they come from?”

“They come from a bank. That’s all I know—and that’s the truth. They come from the National City Bank, in New York, once a month. And that’s all I know about them.”

“You know who sends them, though.”

“Like hell I do. They’re cashier checks.”

“Then you know why they’re sent.”

“What’d you mean, ‘why’?”

“I mean that you know who told the bank to send the checks. You know who gave the money to the bank.”

Another moment of cold-eyed calculation. Then, cautiously: “What makes you think I know?”

“Because I can see it in your face, Uncle Julian.”

“You can—” A quick, outraged moment of silence. Then, suddenly, a loud bray of laughter. Forced. Faked.

“You can see it in my
face
? Is that what you said?” It was almost a merry question, incredulously querulous.

But, still, forced. Faked.

“That’s what I said, Uncle Julian.” He could clearly hear his own voice. He was speaking calmly. Coldly. He was in control.

“Well, then—” Sudden fury sharpened his uncle’s eyes, pinpoints of hatred now. “Well, then, if that’s what you said, boy, then I think you’d better just stop one little goddamn minute to remember that it only takes one word from me, and you’re back in jail. Just one word. You hear me, boy?” Julian’s breathing was harsh and ragged. His face was pasty pale.

“Don’t call me—”

Suddenly his uncle was on his feet. Shouting: “I’ll call you anything I want to, you little bastard. Because that’s what you are. You’re a bastard. And those checks, they come from your father. He’s a very rich, very well-known man, your father. But if anyone ever finds out his name, then those checks stop. Which would mean that your mother would go into an insane asylum—a
state
insane asylum, where she’d be treated like an animal, which is maybe where she belongs. But, just so you understand where I stand—
boy
—I’ll tell you, right out, that I don’t want her in a state asylum for one very simple reason. And that reason—
boy
—is that it wouldn’t look good for me to have a sister there. Now—” Balefully blinking, mouth working furiously, still breathing harsh and hard, Julian said, “Now, that’s the truth. That’s the whole goddamn truth. Your mother is the worst thing that ever happened to me. The worst day of my life was when she came back to Darlington carrying you in her belly. She came back with you in her belly and a trunkful of some kind of holy roller pamphlets and some money in her pocket book, and she rang my bell. And ever since then—
boy
—my life hasn’t been worth shit. So now—” A trembling forefinger pointed to the door. “So now—
boy
—I’ll thank you to get the hell out of here. And don’t ever come back again. Not until you’re asked. And that’ll be never, I promise you.”