Charles Grant - Night Songs Страница 16

She licked a smudge of chocolate from the corner of her mouth. "Don't you?"

"Don't I what?"

"Don't you want to paint me so I can be in a museum?"

He recalled with a wince the look he'd given her when she'd left school, regretted it less than he suddenly thought he should. "Sure," he said. "As long as you wear a tent."

"Oh," she said, and he could have sworn her pursed lips were offering him a kiss.

"Denise, I said I have work."

"Okay." She pushed the last of the bar into her mouth, ran a slow finger around her lips and walked back up the aisle. At the door she paused, looked over her shoulder. "I think he wants to beat you up, Mr. Ross."

Before he could say anything she was out the door and gone. The urge to chase and strangle her propelled him around the counter until he stopped himself with a "Jesus!"

What in hell was going on, he wondered, wiping his brow with a palm. This place is going nuts. Efron, Cameron, now even the stupid kids. He snapped the candy wrapper from the floor and tossed it behind the counter, turned and stared at the entrance, daring her to return.

Who he saw was Carter Naughton, hands on his hips, a knowing expression on his face.

"Naughton, I want to talk to you!"

"Fuck you, teacher," Carter said. "I'll see you later."

A single step was enough to send the boy running, another before he was able to stop himself from panting, unclench his fists and wish for Peg to return. He had no idea what idiotic scheme the kids had in mind, but he didn't like the feeling that hinted he just might be helpless.

Frankie Adams sat hunched in a cardboard cave- empty cartons piled behind the drugstore, arranged into a private place where he could sit and smoke and think of ways he could get his sister away from Naughton so Carter would notice him for a change. It wasn't that he didn't know anything about women; those magazines Cart gave him told him all he had to know. And it wasn't that he was jealous, for God's sake, because Denise the Bitch was his sister, for God's sake. And she was ugly, for God's sake!

What it was, was that it just wasn't fair.

That's all there was to it-it just wasn't fair.

He did practically everything Cart told him, hardly ever wiseassed him, and he was still treated like shit. Was it his fault his mother wouldn't buy him the weights that would give him muscles? Was it his fault he was always broke because he had to turn over his paycheck every week to his old man? Allowance. Jesus H. Christ, he was sixteen years old and still getting an allowance. He drew on the cigarette from the pack he'd stolen from the store and let the smoke trail from his nostrils. He'd seen that in a movie, and he'd seen Cart do it once. He'd nearly choked to death before he'd mastered it, and now, who gave a damn?

He squirmed and hugged his shins, jammed his chin onto one knee. The ground beneath him was still damp from the rain, the cardboard walls sagging. Tonight, before he finished work, he'd have to crush them and stuff them in the dumpster. Of course, he might not have a job left by the time he finally showed up. But he couldn't go in there now. He'd seen Cart and his sister there, and later Mr. Ross had gone in. All those people, half of them thinking he was a sap and needed help, the other half thinking he was a sap and needing a swift kick in the ass.

It wasn't fair.

Nothing was fair.

Nobody was fair, except maybe Mrs. Fletcher. At least she let him have the keys, lock up and stuff like that, like he knew what he was doing. Once she'd let him fix the small generator in her backyard shed, the one she used when storms knocked out the electricity. He'd shown her how to store the kerosene, and she'd given him twenty dollars. Just like that. Twenty dollars.

His mother, for God's sake, still treated him like a baby even when she was sober. Frankie, darling, don't forget your coat, it's chilly today. Frankie, darling, you need more than a T-shirt, it's chilly today. Frankie, finish your supper. Frankie, finish your breakfast. Oh, Frankie, why do you have to wear your hair that way when all the other little boys have nice haircuts?

Little boys. Jesus… H… Christ.

He scowled and dug his heel into the ground.

And the old man. Hell, he's nothing more than a janitor in school, and any place else he can find someone dumb enough to give him a job. What a jackass. Jesus.

He held the cigarette to his palm to see how close he could get before he had to pull away. Cart could put it right on the skin. Cart could flip one around into his mouth and stick it back out still smoking, and not burn his tongue. Cart could walk into the supermarket and tell his old man to give him some money and tell his old lady to shut up, and all they did was yell and give him the money just to get him away. Frankie had tried that once. He'd walked into the house and told his old man to give him ten dollars, and when his mother had started to babytalk him and grill him and ask what he wanted the money for, he'd told her to shut up. His old man had beaten him half to death.

His mother had given him the money when his old man wasn't looking, but he was still beaten half to death and could barely walk for a week.

Cart had laughed. Cart was always laughing at him, and he was getting tired of it. Then Cart told him today to get lost. Just like that-get lost, shithead. Just like that.

But damn it, he wasn't a shithead. He knew that. He wasn't as smart as Denise the Bitch, maybe, but he wasn't a shithead. Cart knew that. Somehow, he had to make sure Cart knew that. God, if Cart didn't pay attention to him anymore, he wouldn't have any friends left, because Mrs. Fletcher didn't count.

He sighed, crushed the cigarette under his heel, crawled through the opening he'd made and stood with his back to the wall. There was no one around. The sun was setting fast. He was ready to get inside and tell Mrs. Fletcher why he was late, when he heard footsteps on the graveled path beside the building. He ducked quickly behind the dumpster and held his breath, looked up and saw Mrs. Fletcher hurrying toward Ocean, cutting between the church and the library. He frowned and wondered who was watching the store. A moan. Muriel, that's who. Who else? Muriel North, who once told him out of the corner of her mouth when she thought no one was listening that he ought to be taken out in one of the boats and dropped over the side. Chum, fish bait, that's what she called him; bloody bits of dead fish to attract the sharks. Chum. The old bat, with her fingers so yellow from smoking she looked like someone from a kung fu movie, for Christ's sake.

Hell, even his mother didn't talk to him like that, even when she was drinking all that crap and shittin' up her liver like he'd seen one time in school, like what happened when people drank too much and all. One of these days, the first day she stopped baby talking him, he was going to smash all the bottles she hid in her closet. Or maybe he'd do it anyway, for Christmas.

Merry Christmas, Ma, you're sober again.

Hell.

Well, there was no sense going in the store now because all he'd get would be grief and a half. Muriel North was a goddamned expert at handing out the grief, and that was something he didn't need right now.

And Cart was gone with Denise the Bitch, and he didn't dare go home because he was supposed to be at work, and…

He fell back in sudden panic with a choked-off curse, hitting the wall hard when a small gull squawked loudly and landed in the browning grass a few feet away. He stared at it a moment, rubbing his sore shoulder, watching it hunt boldly for edible garbage. It complained to itself as it found little more than a moldy orange rind, and Frankie was tempted to find a rock to put through its head to make people think the gull-killer was back. But before he could move, his eyes widened, his lips parted in a smile.

Gull. Bird. Tess Mayfair and her fancy birdbath in that garden behind the boarding house. Cart had tried a million times to steal it, and the old fart had nearly caught him. She was the only one on the island Cart was afraid of. Of course, he wasn't a coward. Anybody'd head the other way when she was running full tilt at you. God, she must weigh five hundred goddamn pounds.

But he wasn't afraid.

And if he could get that birdbath and bring it to Cart, by Jesus Cart'd listen to him then.

The creep. Who did he think he was, calling him a shithead?

He spat and sidled to the corner of the building, checked the street for traffic, and broke into an easy lope that took him behind the other stores, the theater, Naughton's Market. He was in the trees fifteen minutes later, running easily, dodging the low branches, once in a while taking a fallen log at a leap. He was grinning. And he didn't even care that the shadows seemed to follow.

TWO

The haze thickened, closing out the blue and softening the light to a faint shade of gold-gray. What leaves stubbornly remained on branches stirred restlessly, trembling; and those fallen to the gutter clustered close to the curb. The scent of last night's rain still clung to the air, but there was a stronger one now that made the growing slight breeze unpleasantly damp.

Peg held her jacket closed with one hand as she walked toward the setting sun, her free hand shading her eyes. Rather than go to the corner, she cut around the back of the drug store, hurrying to Ocean between the library and the church. A large Doberman chained to an iron stake near the sidewalk lunged at her, barking, snarling, and wagging its tail. She grinned and waved at it, and continued across the street, to the next, and the third, finally slowing on the pathway flanked with chainlink fencing. The house on her left belonged to the Adams, the one on her right to the librarian, Hattie Mills. Straight ahead was her own, and there was a man on the front walk waiting for her.

She moistened her lips nervously. Bob Cameron had called her only half an hour ago, asking if she would mind talking with him for a bit. When she asked why, he oddly declined to give her a reason except to say it had something to do with her late husband.

Then she told herself sternly to stop overreacting. It was probably nothing. It was the day, the Screamer. Almost every hour she had gone to the window to check the sky for thunderheads, the tingling along her arms the same sensation she experienced before a storm. Others felt it too, commenting as they paid their bills and left without delivering the usual ration of gossip.

It was the day, not Bob Cameron. It was probably some stupid way to get him her vote.

He waved as she approached, and she managed a polite smile. He was taller than she, burly and wide-mouthed, tanned so dark his wavy graying hair seemed almost as white as the suit he was wearing. She stepped around the hood of the car at the curb, had gone three steps beyond before she realized there was someone behind the wheel. She turned and frowned as Cameron touched her arm.

"Glad you could come, Peg." His voice was as smooth as the cologne he had on.

"I can't stay long," she told him. "Poor Colin is minding the store, and I don't want to go broke."

He smiled warmly and squeezed her elbow. "No problem. It won't take but a few minutes, I promise you."