Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 02 (8 page)

"Be still!" Madam Celeste snapped.

"Do you see something?"

Her eyes closed, the psychic sagged back in the chair and began to rub her temples. "Go away," she said in a dull voice.

"But what about me and Bo? Are we going to get married?"

"Leave. Go away. Get out of my house." Madam Celeste stood up and walked out of the room.

"That wasn't very nice," Carol Alice said to herself with a faint pout, looking at the bowl of blue sand. "I wonder what all she saw that got her so riled up? Jeez, everybody's awful riled up these days."

Mason came through the kitchen door, carrying a couple of sacks of groceries. "Hi, honey. Are you waiting for Celeste? Can I get you a can of soda pop or something to eat? I just bought some bologna."

"No, but thank you for asking. I don't know where Madam Celeste went -- or why. We were having a reading, but she all of a sudden jumped up and told me to get out of the house. I didn't say nothing to upset her. I was just sitting here waiting to see if Bo and me can get married despite our numerological discord." Her voice dropped to a raspy whisper. "Do you think she saw something terrible about me in the sand? Like I was going to die tomorrow or get hit by a chicken truck or flunk out or get thrown off the cheerleading squad? Oh, Mr. Dickerson, what should I do?"

Mason stared at her over the spaghetti package. "Ah, I'm not sure, Carol Alice. Let me put down the sacks and see if we can come up with something. You're too pretty for anything terrible to happen to you." He put the sacks on the counter and joined her at the dinette table, hoping he could figure out how to stop her from bursting into tears right in the middle of the breakfast room. "Maybe I ought to look at the sand, do you think?"

"Can you interpret Mesopotamian sand?"

"Has Celeste given you a sand reading before?" When she shook her head, Mason produced a confident smile. "Of course I can interpret sand, honey. Is this your handprint? Look at this ridge right here by the edge of the bowl. You see what I'm pointing at? Well, that is the ridge of longevity, and yours is exceptionally high. That means you'll live to be as old as the hills, if not a sight longer."

"Well, that's good to know. What about me and Bo?"

"Look there -- you can almost see the letters of his name right there on the ridge of matrimony. See where the grains kind of swoop in and out? That's the 'B' for Bo. This indentation is the '0.' "

"I do believe I see what you're pointing to," Carol Alice said, feeling a tad brighter. "You do a better reading than Madam Celeste, Mr. Dickerson. Does it show how many kids we'll have?"

"Two of each, and all four of them the cutest things you've ever seen," Mason said, feeling a tad brighter himself, now that the girl was smiling. "Let's study the ridge of residence. Yep, you're going to live in a big house with ceramic-tiled bathrooms and televisions in all the bedrooms. And the kitchen -- well, the kitchen is straight off the pages of Better Homes and Gardens."

"Do I get to have a microwave?"

Mason assured her that she'd have not only a microwave (programmable, and with a browning unit), but also all sorts of luxurious things. He found the automotive ridge, which showed decisively she'd be driving a sleek red Camaro convertible before the first boy (Bo junior, naturally) was in kindergarten. The ridge of financial expectations was high enough to provoke all sorts of squeals and hand clapping. They were having so much fun that both of them jumped like toad-frogs when a shadow fell across the Tupperware bowl.

"Get out of here," Madam Celeste said to Carol Alice. She then looked down at Mason, who was wishing he was on the ridge of elsewhere with a capital "E."

"Mason, come to my study. I must talk to you."

Carol Alice fled. Mason toyed with putting away the groceries first, but abandoned the idea and went to the study.

"I realize I was spouting nonsense, but I was just trying to cheer up the little girl," he said, scuffling his feet as though he were back in the principal's office for a spitball. misdemeanor.

"Forget her; she is a foolish thing with equally foolish problems. Something happened while I was in the middle of the reading, something for which I was not prepared. I was concentrating very hard on attuning myself to the cosmic vibrations. Suddenly a picture flashed across my brain. It was a face, Mason. The eyes were open and unblinking. The skin was red with speckled blood. Flies were dancing on the lips and nostrils. It was very, very dreadful, this face I saw. There had been pain -- and I could almost feel it myself. I wanted to weep, to cry out, to scratch and fight, to lose myself in blackness. Oh, God, Mason; it was so awful."

"Not that sweet little thing who was in the kitchen?" Mason said, shocked by her intensity.

"I do not know." Madam Celeste covered her face with her hands, and her voice was muffled as she again said, "I do not know."

"Why don't you lie down until the nausea passes?" Rainbow said with a motherly smile. "I'll bring you a nice cup of peppermint tea."

"Because she's supposed to be behind the cash register," Nate said from the doorway. His dark eyes glowered from under the shaggy curtain of black hair, and his mouth was twisted with frustration. Pushing back the hair with a brusque movement, he added, "We went over the schedule for the goddamn fiftieth time last night, and everybody agreed. You keep treating her like she was made of porcelain. Poppy's pregnant, not terminal. We're running a business, not a haven for unwed mothers."

Rainbow's motherly smile faltered, but held. "And she has an upset stomach and is seriously considering barfing all over the floor, Nate. That's not the way to encourage repeat business, now is it? Besides, we all love Poppy and we want her to rest."

Poppy managed a brave nod. "That's okay, Rainbow. I feel better, and I'll tend to the cash register until closing time. You stay back here and do the books."

"You're the color of creme de menthe," Rainbow said. "You'd better take the truck and go home. Stay in bed until I can get there to take care of you."

"I'm taking the truck," Nate growled. "She said she was better. You're supposed to bring the ledgers up to date for the accountant. Zachery's busy putting out the bottled water so we'll be able to use the back door. For Christ's sake, nobody can get anything done if Poppy goes home in the middle of the afternoon because her stomach is fluttery! You're doing this to make me angry, aren't you?"

Rainbow's motherly smile was being sorely tested, as was her temper, which she prided herself on never losing. "This is not the jungle of Vietnam, Nate, nor are we in the middle of a triathlon. I'll mind the register and bring the books home to work on tonight; I truly don't mind staying up late to get them finished. Poppy's going home in the truck. I have no intentions of making you angry, and you can run your errands later."

"The co-op closes later. If I don't get over there before they close, we won't have any layer grit tomorrow. I told some old coot we'd have it tomorrow morning."

There was not much communal harmony in the office as Zachery pushed aside the curtain. "Customer," he said, scratching his armpit as he tried to assess the situation through eyes befogged by a joint of exceptionally good pot. "Wants to know the price on six yards of velour."

"I'll see to it," Poppy said. She went around Zachery, trying not to look too relieved at escaping the tension-laden room. Or to throw up.

Rainbow loved both men equally, because equality was the basis of their relationship, but at times she had to admit to a teensy amount of favoritism. Zachery was mild and dopey in a sweet way, with his wispy beard, ponytail, and soft brown eyes that never seemed to focus on much of anything. His face was lined with wrinkles, and his nose was perhaps on the large side, but he never complained.

Nate had the tendency to get too intense, as if he were still in the jungle with a machete between his teeth and they were the invisible enemy. She occasionally thought, although she'd never say a word, that he didn't seem to be meditating quite as seriously as the rest of them. More than once she'd had to remind him of his mantra, or gently admonish him to seek his psychic center. Zachery just needed a pat on the head or a kind word, and he'd offer to hang the moon for her. And he never forgot his mantra. But they and Poppy were her family. Therefore, she loved them all. Once she'd rather sternly reminded herself of that, she turned on her best smile and gave Nate a kiss on his dear, pock-marked cheek. "There, everything is in proper alignment, and we can all share the energy."

"Yeah," Nate said.

Hammet had even more fun with the radio in the jeep, which sparked and spat and produced earshattering static when he turned it up as far as it would go. I kept my attention on the ghastly road, and my hands in a death grip on the steering wheel as we bounced up what was surely a creek bed pretending to be a road.

"Holy shit," Hammet muttered as a dispatcher somewhere sent a police car somewhere else. "Real folks is a-talkin' on this box."

"All courtesy of Mr. Marconi," I replied, trying to hold up the map to see how much farther we had to go. The ridge was crisscrossed by hairline roads, but most of them were abandoned logging trails that had disappeared a decade ago. I was pretty sure we were headed in the right direction; Hammet hadn't been any help because he'd never driven home.

"Yeah," he said. He flopped back against the seat. "You sure we're goin' right? I ain't seen this afore now."

"According to the map, we're going toward your house. As for the accuracy of the map and my interpretation, I don't know. We may end up on County 103, having wasted about six hours in the process."

"So you ain't so all-fired smart, huh?"

I gave him a very quick glance, but it was long enough to see his lower lip stuck out past the tip of his nose. "No," I murmured, "I'm not so all-fired smart. What's bugging you?"

"Macaroni, if you gotta know. Course you gotta know everything, don'tcha? Goddamn cops."

"Marconi was an Italian physicist who invented radios," I said without taking my eyes off the road. "He won a Nobel Prize about seventy years ago."

"So he's dead, huh? Big fucking deal. Ain't nobody what cares about some stupid old Eye-talian who's deader than a pump-handle."

"Well, the radio is a useful invention. It lets me stay in touch with the dispatcher when I'm out of pocket."

"Ain't nobody calling you on the radio."

"But they could, if there were an emergency," I pointed out mildly. "Before Marconi invented the radio, messages had to be mailed or sent on a telegraph wire."

"How'd he know how to make up this radio iffen there weren't no radios around he could copy off of?"

I did my best to explain the concept of inventions. Hammet didn't buy any of it, but it got us most of the way to the cabin. As I parked in front of the ramshackle dwelling, I thought I might miss his company -- in an extremely obscure way. I gave him a smile and a pat on the shoulder, then got out of the jeep. As I started across the weedy yard, two children who came straight out of the Hammet mold appeared at the door. Both were larger, but they had the same tangled black hair, piercing yellowish eyes, and protruding brows.

"Hi, there," I said, stopping at a safe distance. "I've brought Hammet back from town. Is your mother here?"

Hammet tugged on my sleeve. "That be Bubba and Sissie," he whispered. "Sukie's likely to be hiding inside. She's right shy of strangers."

The boy, thirteen or fourteen and leaner than a fence post, stared at me for a long while, then said, "Why do you be a-wantin' to know?"

Hammet edged forward, but he clung to my sleeve. "She be the cop down in Maggody, Bubba, but she ain't all bad. She got me some vittles, and says she'll get y'all vittles, too, iffen we go to town with her."

"I ain't goin' to town."

"Me neither," Sissie said, sticking out her chin. "Besides, Her'd whup the tar outta us iffen we wasn't here when she come back."

"Iffen you starve dead, Her won't find anybody left to whup," Hammet said, expressing my sentiment with succinctness.

Bubba declined to debate the point. "I ain't goin' nowhere. Ain't none of us goin' nowhere with no goddamn motherfuckin' police lady. Hammet, you get your ass in the house iffen you don't want me to stomp it right now."

"You're forgetting who stomped ass last time," Hammet replied smugly.

The two were exchanging alarmingly militant looks when another child came to the doorway, a finger in her mouth. "Baby's a-cryin' again," she lisped through the unappetizing finger.

"Git inside," Bubba snapped.

I realized that we needed a social worker, a referee, or perhaps a few National Guardsmen with great big guns. I would have settled for Mrs. Jim Bob with a Bible. One lone (expletives deleted) chief of police was going to have a potentially volatile situation on her hands, as we say in official jargon, if she tried to force any of the Buchanon offspring into leaving. I considered a plea for reason. I considered a passionate appeal to whatever intelligence Bubba possessed. Once I recovered from that momentary flight of fancy, I went back to the jeep and sat down on the fender.

"There's a lot of food in town," I said.

"Yeah," Hammet said, nodding. "Cheeseburgers and sweet milk and corn chips. All you wants, and you don't have to give 'em money or root through no garbage cans." He shot me a quick look. "You don't hafta take a bath, neither."