Why did she love that insensitive bastard so much?
She looked out the window at the top of Bear Claw, preparing herself for the expected flash of light. The ridge was golden in the sun, the striations of its slopes like waves in an ocean of soil and stone. No strange beacons signaled her, no meaningless syllables pierced her skull. The clouds brushed the mountains as if scrubbing away the nonsense of telepathy and an overactive imagination.
Maybe Robert was right. Gloomies didn’t exist.
Eggs… shish.
The alien collected the symbol, added it to the others that had drifted into the cave. It had received more input from its roots and tendrils, but the symbols made no discernible patterns. After the symbols passed through its filters and reached its center, they were digested along with the bright energy of the forests. The alien fed on the information, but could not focus on all the new signals that flooded its raw senses.
The creature pulsed against the granite, heated by the solar rays that leaked from the mouth of the cave. It was growing stronger from the sustenance. Soon it would be able to move, to crawl from the darkness and expand its search for food. In the meantime, it would rest and analyze.
James dropped a plate, sending thick ceramic shards across the concrete floor. Buddy appeared in the serving window, his face purpling like a plum above his stained apron. "That's the second one you dropped today, boy. What's going on?"
"It's a little steamy back here, that's all.” James felt the invisible white eyes burning from the counter and booths right through the wall. "Makes things slippery."
"Well, you watch it now, or those plates are coming out of your paycheck."
"Yes, sir."
James swept the dish-room floor, the slushhh of the wet broom straws reminding him of last night's encounter. But then, everything was reminding him of last night's encounter: the boiled Brussels sprouts, the day's vegetable side that everybody ignored; the pallid green of the creamed broccoli crusting around the edges of bowls; the parsley garnishes pasted to the plates by Buddy's award-winning gravy; even the zucchini he had sliced, making him think of green fibrous fingers with every stroke of the knife.
"We're in a quandary, Mr. Tin Man," he said quietly. "What you might call a smorgasbord of problems."
The Hobart didn't answer, only opened its dewy steel jaws in hunger for more dirty dishes.
"On the one hand, you've got a creature running loose in Windshake, something that might be dangerous to other people. But on the other, you've got me as the only witness, and what am I but a crazy drunken nigger, probably freaked on angel dust and spouting voodoo Zulu nonsense?
"And on another hand-and let's hope you never get three hands, because then you'll be as creeped-up as that hothouse nightmare I saw last night-I've got Aunt Mayzie to worry over and protect, so I can't hop in the Honda and rediscover the Underground Railroad. Because she's not going to budge, even if the devil himself and his skinhead hordes come to stake their rightful claim to this sorry town."
The Hobart stared, uncomprehending. James lifted his eyes to the food-specked ceiling of the dish room.
"Lord, I hope you're listening, because I have a feeling we're going to need some help. I take back all that stuff about asking you to give Mayzie her angel's wings early because you needed a black face to spice up Your choir. And I take back that ‘White makes right’ guilt trip that I used to lay on you. And I'm sorry for-hell, Lord, this could take the rest of eternity, and I don't have that long. Just get Your white ass in gear. If you really want to save us the way the preachers claim, now's your chance."
James didn't feel any more secure because of the prayer. He checked the lock on the back door and kept a close watch on the Brussels sprouts that swam in the garbage can like leafy eyeballs.
Peggy fingered the torn flap of the envelope. She sighed a blue lungful of tobacco smoke. The electric company was going to cut the power on Monday. January's bill was seven weeks past due. And this morning, the kids had to eat oatmeal for breakfast, from two little brown packets she had found in the cupboard behind a rusty can of beets and a hard-crusted sack of cornmeal. It had been plain flavor oatmeal, at that.
Her puffy eyes welled with tears. She tried to be a good mother, Lord knows she tried, but she wasn't getting much help on the home front from Sylvester. Bastard hadn't even made it home last night and apparently hadn't bothered to show up for work for the third day in a row.
She stubbed out her smoke and laid the butt aside for later. Might be hard times ahead.
Hard times is HERE, girl. The question is, what are you going to do about it?
She lifted the phone, her nicotine-stained fingers trembling as she punched the buttons. Jimmy answered. Jimmy didn't seem to be big on going to work these days, either.
"Hello?" he said, his parched throat cracking.
"Jimmy? It's Peggy."
"Peggy, darlin'. You're up with the birds this morning."
"You up yet?"
"Uh-sure, honey. Just a sec."
She heard the unmistakable sound of a hand covering the mouthpiece and Jimmy's muffled voice beyond that.
"Is somebody with you, Jimmy?"
"Huh? No, you know I'm a one-woman guy these days. And you're the woman got me that way."
Peggy might have blushed slightly, maybe even gotten a small tingle, if she didn't know all about Eula Mae Pritcher, Peggy's cross-town rival. Eula Mae lived on the other side of the tracks, and one day Peggy wanted to have a catfight with her over which side of the tracks was the wrong side. But maybe when it came to loving Jimmy, both sides of the track were wrong.
"Cut the shit, Jimmy. I called to talk about your… proposal."
"Really?" His voice squeaked like an adolescent experiencing his first hand-job. Then his voice lowered again. "I mean, I'm glad you're coming around. I think it can be good for both of us."
She wasn't sure what she thought of having Jimmy as a business partner. But her back was to the wall, with pricks at every side.
And what was the difference, anyway? She was already doing the synchronized snake dance with Jimmy, Paul Crosley, that Speerhorn boy who was Junior's friend at high school, and occasionally her own husband, Sylvester. And all she had to show for it so far were sticky thighs and an aching heart.
"Jimmy, Sylvester didn't come home last night. I don't know what he's up to this time. And I'm starting to get to where I don't care."
"No telling where he's off to. But that might make this little enterprise go a little smoother, right here at the first. So I can get some customers over there."
" Here?"
"Sure, darlin'. It's convenient for everybody. And we already know how to work around Sylvester's schedule."
Peggy wasn't sure she liked the idea of a parade of drunks in her trailer, dirtying up her dishes and spraying bodily fluids and liquor vomit all over her bedroom, using up her toilet paper and leaving mud all over the doormats. But she knew Jimmy sure as hell didn't want anybody whoring out of his own mobile home. He wouldn't even let Peggy set foot in the place.
"When do we start?" she asked.
She heard a bristling sound, probably Jimmy rubbing the hangover off his stubbled cheeks. "Soon as I round up some johns."
"Who the hell is John?"
"Just the lingo, baby. I told you, I've been studying on this some."
She stabbed the thumb-length cigarette butt between her lips and fired it up. "Well, I've got some bills coming up, is why I'm asking."
"It's Friday, honey. I can line up some action, no problem. If we can set something up for this afternoon, hell, I can go down to the Moose Lodge and probably load up a cattle truck. Plus, if Sylvester does turn up, he'll be at the Moose Lodge, too, just like every Friday night. So I can keep an eye on him."