“Hillary?” Smoke leaked from his nostrils as he leaned over to pass the joint to Hillary. Hillary waved it on. So did Jamie—he seemed wary around his father, not afraid exactly but tense.
But Ali took the joint and sucked it eagerly. I did the same. I actually hated getting high. It made me cough, and I worried so much about saying something stupid that I would just sit in paranoid silence until it was time to go home. But I was too self-conscious to refuse, certainly in front of Jamie’s father.
“Thanks,” said Ali.
“No prob.” Ralph leaned against the counter and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “So. Axel’s coming back this weekend. I gather you guys know him?”
Hillary cocked a thumb at me. “He’s her godfather.”
“Oh yeah? That’s cool. So you heard about the party, right?”
“No.” I took a spoonful of marmalade and sucked it. “What party?”
“There’s a big bash this weekend. Halloween party. I gather there’s gonna be a lot of the usual suspects around. Rock musicians. Pulitzer Prize winners. Norman Mailer, local riffraff. You see Axel much?”
I shrugged. “Not for a long time. He’s hardly ever here. I think my folks saw him, I dunno—maybe two years ago? He doesn’t stay in Kamensic much.”
“Why would he want to?” Jamie turned to Ali. “How come he’s not your godfather?”
“I wasn’t born with a caul.”
“What’s a caul?”
“It’s a joke,” I explained. “He and my father’ve been friends for a while, that’s all. I didn’t even know he was back in town.”
“He’s not, yet,” said Ralph Casson. “He’s getting the money together for Ariadne.”
Ali frowned. “Ari Who?”
“Ariadne auf Naxos. The sublime music that was playing when you arrived, before Jamie put on whatever the hell this crap is. It’s an opera. You guys know what an opera is?”
I laughed, but Hillary cleared his throat and warbled in his best falsetto—
Ralph gave him a thumbs-up. “Hope for the future! Yeah, that’s Axel’s new baby. He’s got some big backer in Italy, one of the DeLaurentises or somebody, wants to sink a bundle in it. That’s why we’re here—I’m doing the sets.”
Hillary and I glanced at each other. Anything connected with Axel Kern would be a plum assignment, and Ali’s father could have used the work. I stole a look at her. She seemed surprised by this revelation, but said nothing.
“Well, anyway, some kind of Big Do this weekend. Maybe catch some of you there.” Ralph stretched and began patting absently at the tools dangling from his waist. “Okay. Back to work. Jame, you seen my T square around here?”
“Nope.”
“What about my X-Acto knife?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Yeah, well, keep an eye out for ’em, okay?” He ambled across the room. “See you later, Hillary. Ali.” In the doorway he paused to flash me a grin. “Thalia.”
When he was gone Jamie sank into a chair. “God, I’m sorry.”
“He’s all right,” I said.
“Hey, he’s cool.” Ali gave Jamie a stoned smile. “Can he read auras? Harmony Shakti did that for me when I was over there last week.”
“Who’s Harmony Shakti?”
“Rachel Meyerson’s mother.” Hillary tilted his chair back and wedged his knees beneath the table. “A total fruitcake. Your father doesn’t seem like a total fruitcake.”
“Yeah, well, everything’s relative.” Jamie tapped the butter dish with the wrong end of a fork, his turquoise eyes a little too bright. “You oughta meet my mother.”
“Where’s she?” asked Ali.
“Getting her aura read somewhere down in Tennessee.” With a loud tink Jamie dropped the fork into an empty mug. “She’s part of an experiment in expanding the radical sexual and spiritual consciousness of our nation.”
Ali frowned.
“She dumped me and my father and joined a commune.”
“Cool,” breathed Ali. Hillary gave her a disgusted look.
“That’s a drag,” I said, but Jamie only sighed.
“I’m beat. I think I’ll crash for the night.” He eased from his seat, hands slung into his pockets. “Hillary, man. Thanks for the lift. Lynn—”
“Lit,” I said.
“—Lit. I’ll see you later.” He got halfway across the kitchen and stopped to look back at Ali.
“Hey,” she said, suddenly bouncing up, “where’s your bathroom? I gotta take a leak—”
“C’mere, I’ll show you.”
Hillary and I watched them go. We waited for Ali to return, but after a few minutes Hillary said, “I think they’ve gone to look at his etchings.”
“His aura.” I brushed the hair from Hillary’s eyes, and pointed at the front door. “Come on. I’m pretty beat, too.”
We went outside. Above us stars blazed, and the wind was no longer chilly but downright cold, sending acorns rattling down from the trees. The sound made me think of the horned man and I shivered, buttoning my jacket and wrapping my arms around Hillary.
“Well, gee, Charlotte.” He gave me a rueful smile and drew me close. “Isn’t it nice to make a new friend?”
“And his groovy asshole father.”
We got into the car and I looked back at the cottage. All the windows were dark; the front door was shut. But as we pulled away Ralph Casson emerged. In one hand he held a hammer, swinging it lazily back and forth. The other cradled a long two-by-four like a shotgun. When he saw us he waved, raising the hammer in a triumphant pose.
“All power to the People’s Party, Comrades!”
“Right on,” hollered Hillary. The Dodge Dart groaned as it crept away, and crickets flew up around us like water spraying from a ditch. When we reached the bottom of the driveway Hillary grabbed my arm and squeezed it hard, the two of us giving the mountain a quick backward glance as the car slammed onto the paved road.
“This will end in tears,” said Hillary. He smiled but his eyes were grim. “Big fat fucking tears.” He gunned the motor and drove much too fast the rest of the way home.
6. Things Behind the Sun
IN HIS STUDY, BALTHAZAR Warnick stood in front of the window, gazing into the twilight of the Blue Ridge but seeing only the anguished face of Giulietta as she was led away by the agents of the Benandanti. When someone touched his shoulder he gasped, and held up his hand as though warding off a blow.
“Professor Warnick?”
He blinked. Beside him stood Kirsten Isaksen, the Orphic Lodge’s forbidding housekeeper. Her thin mouth was pursed, her customary scowl tempered with concern. “You have forgotten your supper, Professor. I’ve brought it up on a tray for you.”
Balthazar drew his hand across his eyes. “I’m sorry, Kirsten, I—”
“It is here.” Kirsten turned and busied herself with setting a heavy silver tray upon Balthazar’s desk, moving aside heaps of paper and a long, coiled parchment scroll. “Grillet laks med dill, also kurkkusalaatti. And please see that you eat it all, Professor, the cat is ill when you give her salmon. The dill is very fresh”— She picked up a yellow-green sprig and waved it admonishingly at Balthazar. —“and there is Tosca cake for dessert. And I am to remind you yet again that you have not performed the pharmakos.”