“I might have been able to do it, when I first came here. I was barely a hundred back then. Oh I know it sounds old to you, but it’s nothing, nothing. I had a husband whose kisses kept me young.”
“This is King Texas?” Phoebe said.
The woman’s hands dropped back into her lap, and she uttered a shuddering sigh. “No,” she said. “This was in the Cosm, in my youth. A soul I loved far more than I ever loved Texas. And who loved me back, to distraction. . . . ” An expression of utter loss crossed her face. “It never passes,” she murmured. “The pain of losing love. It never truly passes. I’m afraid to sleep some nights—Abré knows; poor Abré—I’m afraid because when I sleep I dream he’s returned into my arms, and I into his, and the hurt of waking is so great I can’t bear to close my eyes, for fear the dream will come again.” She was suddenly weeping, Phoebe saw. Tears pouring down her gouged cheeks. “Oh Lord, if I had my way I’d unmake love. Wouldn’t that be fine?”
“No,” Phoebe said softly. “I don’t think that would be fine at all.”
“You wait until you’ve outlived all those you care for, or lost them. You wait till all you’ve got left is a husk and some memories. You’ll lie awake the way I do, and pray not to dream.” She beckoned to Phoebe. “Come closer, will you?” she said. “Let me see you a little more clearly.”
Phoebe duly moved to the side of the bed. “Abré, that lamp. Bring it closer. I want to see the face of this woman, who’s so in love with love. Better, better.” She lifted her hand as if to touch Phoebe’s face, then withdrew from the contact. “Are there any new diseases in the Cosm?” she said.
“Yes there are.”
“Are they terrible?”
“Some of them, yes,” Phoebe said, “One of them’s very terrible indeed.” She remembered Abré’s phrase. “The Cosm’s a vale of tears,” she said.
It did the trick. The Mistress smiled. “There,” she said, turning to Abré. “Isn’t that what I always say?”
“That’s what you say,” Musnakaff replied.
“No wonder you fled it,” the woman said, turning her attention back to Phoebe.
“I didn’t—”
“What?”
“Flee. I didn’t flee. I came because there’s somebody here I want to find.”
“And who might that be?”
“My . . . lover.”
The Mistress regarded her pityingly. “So you’re here for love?” she said.
“Yes,” Phoebe replied. “Before you ask, his name’s Joe.”
“I had no intention of asking,” the Mistress rasped.
“Well I told you anyhow. He’s somewhere out there at sea. And I’ve come to find him.”
“You’ll fail,” the harridan said, making no attempt to disguise her satisfaction at the thought. “You know what’s going on out there, I presume?”
“Vaguely.”
“Then you surely know there’s no chance of finding him. He’s probably already dead.”
“I know that’s not true,” Phoebe said.
“How can you know?” the Mistress said.
“Because I was here in a dream. I met him, out there in Quiddity.” She dropped her voice a little, for dramatic effect. “We made love.”
“In the sea?”
“In the sea.”
“You actually coupled in Quiddity?” Musnakaff said.
“Yes.”
The Mistress had picked up a sheet of paper from the bed—it was covered, Phoebe saw, with line upon line of spidery handwriting—and proceeded to tear it up. “Such a thing,” she said, half to herself. “Such a thing.”
“Is there any way you can help me?” Phoebe said.
It was Musnakaff who replied. “I’m afraid—”
He got no further. “Maybe,” the Mistress said. “The sea doesn’t speak. But there are those in it that do.” She had reduced the first sheet of paper to litter, and now picked up a second. “What would I get in return?” she asked Phoebe.
“How about the truth?” Phoebe replied.
The Mistress cocked her head. “Have you lied to me?” she said.
“I said what I was told to say,” Phoebe replied.
“About what?”
“About the Cosm being a vale of tears.”
“Is that not so?” the Mistress said, somewhat testily.
“Some of the time. People live unhappy lives. But not all the time. And not all of the people.” The Mistress grunted. “I guess maybe you don’t want to hear the truth after all. Maybe you’re happier just sitting tearing up love letters and thinking you’re better off here than there.”
“How did you know?”
“What, that they were love letters? By the look on your face.”
“He’s been writing to me every hour on the hour for six years. Tells me he’d let me have this whole damn continent, if I’d only grant him a kiss, a touch. I’ve never answered a single billet-doux. But still he writes ’em, reams and reams of sentimental nonsense. And every now and then I take a day or so to tear them up.”
“If you hate him that much,” Phoebe said, “you must have loved him—”
“I told you, I’ve loved one creature in my life. And he’s dead.”
“In the Cosm,” Phoebe said. It was not a question, it was a statement, plain and simple.
The Mistress looked up at her. “Do you read minds?” she said, very softly. “Is that how you know my secrets?”
“It wasn’t much of a leap,” Phoebe replied. “You said you dreamed this city into being. You must have seen the original once.”
“I did,” the Mistress said. “A very long time ago. I was a mere child.”
“Did you remember much?”
“More than I care to,” the woman said, “far more. I had great ambitions, you see, and they came to nothing. Well, almost nothing . . . ”
“What ambitions?”
“To build a new Alexandria. A city where people would live in peace and prosperity.” She shrugged. “And what did I end up with?”
“What?”
“Everville.”
Phoebe was flummoxed. “Everville?” she said. What on earth could this bizarre creature have to do with safe, smug little Everville?
The woman dropped the love letter she was tearing and stared into the flames. “Yes. You may as well know the whole truth, for what it’s worth.” She looked from the fire to Phoebe and made a tiny smile. “My name’s Maeve O’Connell,” she said, “and I’m the fool who founded Everville.”
SEVEN
I
Until the early eighties, the route of the Saturday Parade had been simple. It had started at Sears’ Bakery on Poppy Lane and proceeded along Acres Street to Main, where it had moved—in about an hour—to its conclusion in the town square. But as the scale of both the parade and the crowd attending it had grown, a new route had to be devised that would allow breathing room for both. After several six-to-midnight meetings in their smoke-filled room above Dorothy Bullard’s office, the Festival Committee had hit upon a simple but clever solution: The parade would describe an almost complete circle around the town, setting out from behind the Town Hall. This almost tripled the length of the route. Main Street and the town square would still remain the prime sites for viewing, of course, but the spectators there would be obliged to wait somewhat longer for the show to come their way. For the impatient then, or those with impatient kids, the streets closer to the starting-place were preferable, while for those folks who thrived on anticipation, and were happy to eat, drink, and swelter for an hour and a half while the music grew tantalizingly louder, there was still no better place to be than on the bleachers, fire escapes, and windowsills of Main Street.
* * *
“The band’s never sounded better,” Maisie Waits said to Dorothy as the two women stood in the sun outside Kitty’s Diner, watching the parade slowly make its way towards the crossroads.
Dorothy beamed. She couldn’t have been more proud, she thought to hersel
f, if she’d given birth to every one of these musicians herself, and was about to say so when she checked herself. Wherever that notion had popped up from it was perhaps better left unspoken. Instead she said, “We all loved Arnold, of course,” speaking of Arnold Langley, who had led the band for twenty-two years until his sudden death of a stroke the previous January, “but Larry’s really worked on updating the repertoire.”
“Oh Bill just thinks the sun shines out of Larry,” Maisie remarked. Her husband had played the trombone in the band for a decade. “And he loves the new uniforms.”
They’d cost a tidy sum, but there was no doubt the money had been well spent. Along with Larry Glodoski’s recruiting drive, which had brought a number of new, younger players into the ranks (all but one of them from out of town), the uniforms had given the band a fresher, snappier appearance, which had in turn improved their marching and their playing. There’d even been talk of the band entering one of the big interstate competitions in the next couple of years. Even if it didn’t win, the publicity would only help the Festival.
Not that it needed help, Dorothy thought, her gaze moving from band to crowd. There were about as many people here as the streets would bear; five or six deep in some places, their weight putting the barricades under considerable strain, their din so loud it drowned out all but the band’s bass drum, which thumped away in Dorothy’s lower belly like a second heart.
“You know I really should eat something,” she said to Maisie. “I’m feeling a little floaty.”
“Oh, well that’s no good,” Maisie said. “We’ll have to get some food inside you.”
“I’ll just wait until the band gets here,” Dorothy said.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. I can’t miss the band.”
* * *
“I feel like a damn fool,” Erwin said.
Dolan grinned. “Nobody can see us but us,” he pointed out. “Oh come on, lighten up, Erwin. Didn’t you always want to march in a parade?”
“Actually, no,” Erwin replied.
They were all there—Nordhoff, Dickerson, even Connie, marching among the glittering ranks—all playing the fool.
Erwin couldn’t see the joke. Not today, when plainly there was so much wrong with the world. Hadn’t Nordhoff himself said that they had to somehow protect their investment in Everville? And here they were capering like children.
“I’m done with this!” he said sourly. “We should be after that bastard in my house.”
“We will be,” Dolan said. “Nordhoff told me he had a plan.”
“Somebody taking my name in vain?” Nordhoff called over his shoulder.
“Erwin thinks we’re wasting our time.”
“Do you indeed?” Nordhoff said, swinging round, and marching backwards while he addressed the question. “It may seem like a pathetic little ritual to you, marching with the town band, but it’s like that jacket you’re wearing.”
“This thing?” Erwin said. “I thought I’d given it away.”
“But you found the pockets full of keepsakes, didn’t you?” Nordhoff said. “Little pieces of the past?”
“Yes.”
“It was the same for all of us,” Nordhoff replied, plunging his hand into the pocket of his less-than-perfect tux and pulling out a handful of bric-a-brac. “Either our memories or some higher power supplied us with these comforts. And I’m grateful.”
“What’s your point?” Erwin pressed.
“That we have to stay connected to Everville the way we stay connected to ourselves. Whether it’s an old shirt or an hour with the town band, it doesn’t matter. They serve the same function. They help us remember what we loved.”
“What we still love,” Dolan said.
“You’re right, Richard. What we still love. You see the point, Erwin?”
“I can think of better ways to do it than this,” Erwin growled.
“Doesn’t a band make your heart strike up?” Nordhoff said, raising his knees a little higher with each step. “Listen to those trumpets.”
“Raucous!” Erwin said.
“Jesus, Toothaker!” Nordhoff said. “Where’s your sense of celebration? This is what we’re fighting to preserve.”
“Then God help us,” Erwin said, at which reply Nordhoff turned his back, and picking up his pace marched off through the brass section.
“Go after him,” Dolan told Erwin. “Quickly. Tell him you’re sorry.”
“Go to Hell,” Erwin said, peeling off from the ranks and heading for the choked sidewalk. Dolan went after him.
“Nordhoff’s not a very forgiving man,” Dolan said.
“I don’t care,” Erwin said. “I’m not going to abase myself.” He stopped, his gaze fixed on somebody in the crowd.
“What is it?” Dolan wanted to know.
“There,” Erwin said, pointing to the bedraggled woman moving through the crowd.
“You know her?”
“Oh yes.”
Tesla was about a hundred yards from the crossroads when she realized where she was. She halted. It took Harry just a second or two to catch up with her.
“What’s the problem?” he hollered to her.
“We shouldn’t have come this way!” she yelled back.
“You know a better one?”
Tesla shook her head. Perhaps with Raul’s aid she’d have been able to plot an alternative route to Phoebe’s house, but from now on she’d have to start working these problems out for herself.
“So we just have to plough on,” Harry said.
Tesla nodded, and did just that, plunging on into the press of bodies with the abandon of an orgiast. If only there were some way to harness the power of this communion, she thought; to turn it to practical purpose instead of letting it evaporate. What a waste that was; what a pitiful waste.
Caught in the grip of the crowd, unable to entirely control her route, nor entirely concerned to do so, she felt curiously comforted. The touch of flesh on flesh, the stench of sweat and candy-sweetened breath, the sight of oozing skin and glittering eye, all of it was fine, just fine. Yes, these people were vulnerable and ignorant; yes, they were probably crass, most of them, and bigoted and belligerent. But now, right now, they were laughing and cheering and holding their babies high to see the parade, and if she did not love them, she was at least happy to be of their species.
“Listen to me!” Erwin yelled at her.
The woman showed no sign of hearing, but the expression on her face gave Erwin hope that maybe she could be persuaded to hear. Her eyes had a lunatic gleam in them, and there was a twitching smile on her lips. He could not feel her temperature, but he was certain she was running a fever.
“Just tune in, will you?” he hollered.
“Why are you bothering?” Dolan wanted to know.
“Because she knows a damn sight more than we do,” Erwin told him. “She knew that thing in my house by name. I heard her call it Kissoon.”
“What about him?” Tesla said to Harry, throwing the question over her shoulder.
“What about who?” Harry replied.
“You said Kissoon.”
“I didn’t say a word.”
“Well somebody did.”
“She heard me!” Erwin whooped. “Good girl! Good girl.”
Dolan was intrigued now. “Maybe she’d hear better if we said it together,” he suggested.
“Not a bad idea. After three . . . ”
* * *
This time Tesla stopped. “You didn’t hear that either?” she said to Harry. He shook his head. “Okay,” she said. “No big deal.”
“What are you talking about?”
She pushed through the crowd to an empty doorway, with Harry following. The store—a florist’s—was closed, but the scent of flowers was powerful.
“There’s somebody talking to me, Harry. Besides you. His name’s Toothaker.”
“And . . . where is he?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I mean, I kn
ow he’s dead. I was in his house. That’s where I saw Kissoon.” She kept scanning the crowd while she spoke, hoping to catch a glimpse of the presence, or rather presences, she’d heard. “He’s not alone this time. I heard two voices. They want to get through to me. I just don’t know how to tune in.”
“I’m no help, I’m afraid,” Harry said. “I’m not saying they’re not here—”
“It’s okay,” Tesla told him. “I just have to listen—”
“You want to find somewhere quieter?”
She shook her head. “I might lose them.”
“You want me to step away?”
“Don’t go far,” she said, and closing her eyes, tried to shut out the din of the living and listen for the voices of the dead.
Dorothy caught hold of Maisie’s arm, very tight.
“What’s wrong?” Maisie said.
“I really don’t . . . I don’t feel too good at all . . . ” Dorothy said. Her surroundings had started to throb in rhythm with the band, as though everything had a heart sewn inside it (even the sidewalk, even the sky), and the closer the band came, the harder those hearts beat, until it seemed they would surely burst, every one of them burst wide open, and tear a hole in the world.
“Shall I get you something to eat?” Maisie said. The drums were louder with every beat: booming and booming. “Maybe a tuna salad, or—”
Without warning, Dorothy bent double and puked. The knot of people in front of her parted—not quickly enough to keep themselves from being spattered, but fast—as she heaved up what little her stomach contained. Maisie waited until the spasms had stopped then tried to coax her out of the sun into the shade of the diner. But she wouldn’t go, or couldn’t.
“It’s going to burst,” she said, staring down at the ground.
“It’s all right, Dottie—”
“No it isn’t. It’s going to burst!”
“What are you talking about?”
Dorothy shook off Maisie’s grip. “We’ve got to clear the street,” she said, stumbling forward. “Quickly!”
“What’s going on down there?” Owen said, leaning out of the window. “Do you know that woman?”