CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE TOWN EASED UP ON THEM, ONE HOUSE AT A TIME, UNTIL suddenly, almost without warning, they were in the midst of a strange conglomeration of buildings surrounding an enormous square. Like most small towns, Brackston was nothing more than a wide spot on the road. A mere dot in the center of mountainous country covering a vast area. It sat, serene in its isolation, as far from civilization as Genesis from Revelation.

It began with a main street of commerce, flowed lazily into the courthouse square, then drifted away into a few back streets lined with slatboard and stone houses and a few odd creations recently constructed. Most of the dwellings were unpainted and crude. Scattered here and there were several buildings two stories in height, bearing the appearance of having significant importance to the community.

Ron eased the car through the square and pointed it toward a weather-beaten Texaco sign at the other end of town. The bell of the village church struck twice more, then stopped. From deep within indigo shadows of doorways, eyes seemed to peer out. Mouths agape, no doubt, Ron mused. The town was just as he had pictured it; a self-proclaimed oasis huddled under sun and dust and flies.

A dog barked and was choked by the silence. Then loomed a group of elderly men, hats reared up on the backs of their heads. They stood, complacent in their honorable laziness, in front of the drugstore. Shooting the breeze, Ron guessed. Just smoking, spitting into the street, and discussing the weather, crops, people and...

An old woman dressed in black with a black headscarf crossed in front of the car, stopped suddenly to peer into the windshield. Her loose wrinkled lips drew back and she smiled. Ron waved her on. She nodded shyly; then hurriedly, respectfully, she crossed the street and disappeared into the grocery store.

“Be ready to slide down to the floor,” Ron said.

“Why?”

“Because I have the strange feeling that any minute people are going to start shooting at us.”

Chandal laughed and turned to Kristy. “Don’t mind your father. He’s joking.”

Ron brought the car to a stop in front of the gas station. Joking? Maybe. But something here eluded him. “Wait here,” he said, closing the car door. “This could take a few minutes. Then again, we may be here all day.”

“Kristy and I will be across the street having a soda.”

“All right,” Ron said, barely listening; he was peering through the dirt-encrusted window of the station. He saw a small dirty room. Empty. Tentatively, he followed the flagstone path around the building to the work area. There was a car lift on either side, a horse trough set in the middle, and a heavy wooden door to the rear.

Bare to the waist, an ageless man in denim trousers bent to pick up a shirt from the edge of a water barrel. His back and shoulders were wet; water dripped from his flowing mop of hair. He had just drawn the shirt over his head when he wheeled around to confront Ron. His was a strange, remote, pale face. So pale it might have been bleached; skin, hair, eyes were all of albino pallor. He had eyebrows and lashes, but they were visible only from certain angles; what Ron saw was bones of eye sockets, red-veined lids and deep-set colorless eyes.

“I never heard you come up behind me,” he said, just missing eye contact with Ron.

“I’m sorry,” Ron said.

“I thought I was alone.”

“Your shirt.”

“What?”

“You’re buttoning it crooked.”

The man glanced down, started over, buttoning it straight. Shaking his head, he moved forward to pick up his shoes. “Hot,” he said and dropped onto a pile of old tires. “But the fishing was good though.”

“What’d you catch?”

“A fair-size cat. Plenty for one man.”

Ron watched his hands as he laced his shoes. Large, bony hands, like his face, like his whole body, and they moved with the same awkwardness. Ron suddenly realized the awkwardness was partly caused by poor vision. Even as he watched, the man squinted down at his shoe, having as much trouble pulling the lace through the small round eye as a nearsighted woman has in threading a needle.

“Are you the owner?” Ron asked.

“Of what?”

“This station.”

“Shoot, no,” he said and straightened. “Work scares the hell out of me.”

After a minute Ron asked, “Then you don’t work here either?”

The man looked at him for a moment with an expression Ron could not fathom. “You don’t know me?” the man inquired.

Ron chuckled. “No...”

“Sure you do. Everyone knows me. I’m Tyler Adam. Everyone knows...”

“TYLER!” a voice boomed.

Tyler Adam turned quickly to Ron and whispered, “You better look at me good,” he said. “Remember me.”

“Get the hell away from here, Tyler!” The rear door swung shut with a thud. “This isn’t a public bath. Now get!”

Over his shoulder, Tyler mumbled again, “Remember me.” It was uttered casually, as though an afterthought, and within seconds Ron had forgotten he’d said it.

“Matthew Todd’s the name,” said the man in the coveralls, wiping his hands with a rag. “Can I help you?” He was a tall husky man, barrel-chested, who obviously had once possessed great muscular strength. That power was apparently gone now, but age had not stooped him and his baked leathery face was still handsome.

“I sure hope so,” Ron said and quickly spelled out the problem. Under the circumstances, he had managed to tell his tale of woe with placid, undeniable calm.

His calm shell developed a hairline crack when Matthew Todd said: “I’m afraid I can’t help you. Today’s Saturday. I’m about to close.”

“Close?”

“All businesses in Brackston are about to close. Tonight’s the first night of carnival. Besides,” he peered at Ron’s car. “I don’t have your tires in stock.” He had the easy rambling air of a man who missed the seriousness of the problem because it wasn’t his problem.

“Like I’ve said,” he repeated, “I don’t have your tires in stock. Those on the car won’t go a hundred miles before they’re flat again. No matter how well I patch them up. Hell, if you’re not in a hurry, stay over until Monday. Monday my man goes to Salt Lake City for parts. He can pick up your tires then. In the meantime, there’s the carnival. You sure as hell don’t want to miss the carnival.

Ron knew, with terrible clarity, that the situation had become hopeless. He was overwhelmed at the prospect of staying in Brackston until Monday. Still he murmured, “Is there a hotel or motel in town?”

“Not a one. But Mrs. Taylor takes in boarders. She speaks six languages. You’ll enjoy her company,” he said as though any woman who spoke six languages was bound to be enjoyed.

From the corner of his eye, Ron watched Chandal and Kristy climb back into the car. They were both smiling.

“The big stone house on the edge of town,” Todd said. He slid a steel gate across his front door and bolted it. “You can’t miss it. Leave the car parked there. When the tires get here on Monday, I’ll send my man over. Well, enjoy yourself,” he said with surprising joviality and climbed into his pickup truck. A moment later he was gone.

Ron stood motionless, the swirling updraft of the truck cooling him slightly. The air was still then, and heavy, and smelled faintly chemical, the odor of gas or oil. A green flag hung limp on the side of the gas pump. No cars passed, no people milled about, no dogs barked. All was still.

“Well, anyway,” Chandal said in a small voice, “we’re having an adventure. Aren’t we?”

“An adventure, right,” Ron said with growing irritation, adding, “In the meantime, we’re stuck in this damn place until Monday!”

He never slowed the car until he had reached the opposite end of town. There he stopped to obtain more specific directions and soon found himself on a one-lane country road. A sign to the left read: Private. The driveway curved between a row of trees, over a stone bridge and passed a small gate house. The gate was encrusted with rust and stood open. Ron’s attention moved swiftly to the large stone house at the end of the drive.

The house stood on a slight incline and appeared to be carved from the mountain directly behind its massive facade. In the harsh light, the stonework of the house appeared dark gray and the roof black. It was only after Ron had driven closer that he realized the roof was a flaming red. He parked the car near the house and walked through the settling dust to the edge of the driveway.

Ahead of him was a small stone fence with a steel gate. Beyond was a stretch of undernourished grass, a few shade trees growing out of stony, arid ground. The windows were all closed and shaded. There was no sign of life and yet the house did not look deserted.

“Are you sure this is the house?” Chandal let the car door close behind her.

From behind the house a black dog, coarse-haired, curious, came toward Ron, then stopped, staring.

“Hello,” Ron called out. “Mrs. Taylor?”

The dog came nearer, watching.

Ron inched forward and lifted the latch from the gate. From the corner of his eye he thought he saw someone peering from the top window of the house. Yet, when he looked closer, the window was empty.

He inched cautiously forward. He finally took a deep breath and rang the bell. It seemed a long time before anyone came. From time to time he glanced nervously over his shoulder and saw Chandal standing aside, apparently gazing into the mountains. What was she looking at? he wondered. Kristy’s chin lay on the window frame, her eyes fixed curiously on her mother.

Finally the door opened and she was standing there.

A sophisticated woman of forty, sharp featured, with hair pulled severely back into a bun. She was slender and elegant, her face full of intelligence. Ron’s eyes caught hers for a moment, then shifted to a starfish of diamonds pinned over her bosom on her lavender lace dress. “Hello,” she said, displaying her smile generously.

“Hi, I’m...”

“Mr. Talon, I know. I’ve been expecting you.”

“What?”

“Matthew called me as soon as he arrived home.”

“I see.”

“Please, come in.”

Ron turned. “Del.”

Kristy had already opened the car door and was on her way up the walk. Ron waited, watching Chandal. Although she moved toward the house now, she still seemed preoccupied with the mountains beyond. Absently she pulled the ribbon from her hair, allowing her hair to fall softly over her shoulders.

“What a pretty child,” Mrs. Taylor said. She took Kristy by the hand and drew her invitingly into the house.

In a low voice, Ron said, “Del, do we really want to do this?”

Chandal nodded. “Yes,” she said wearily. “Oh, dear God, yes.”

They followed Mrs. Taylor into a vast anteroom and the still vaster hallway, the sound of their footsteps on the highly polished oak floorboards echoing off the walls and the distant ceiling. The floor sloped slightly as they neared the living room, then widened into an impressively carved staircase that spiraled upward to the second-floor landing.

More solid oak. More polish.

Passing over the threshold, Mrs. Taylor stepped aside, allowing Ron a view of the most awesome room he had ever seen. The ceiling was an elaborately painted Gothic mosaic of clamoring angels, the floor richly carpeted, over the center of which hung a magnificent chandelier. The walls were decorated with tapestries and paintings of Renoir, Degas, Cézanne, and, Ron guessed, several early Picassos. The scent of roses was everywhere, masses of them set about in porcelain bowls.

Chandal nudged Ron, whispering discreetly, “Can you believe this?” and Ron mumbled, “Jesus.”

In the background, music, a soft interweaving of notes like the sound of water, and not unlike the room, blended with a fantastic garden which was more like a tropical jungle, or forest, in the prehistoric age of grand fern-forests when living creatures had scales for skin and had just discovered the subtle art of dry-land procreation.

Color: the room was flooded with it; the room breathed.

Ron fixedly stared at a massive tree-flower that suggested various organs of the human body. Beneath this exotic plant sat a petite woman who presided over a silver tea service. To her left, almost lost in another cluster of greenery, an elderly man was seated comfortably in a rocking chair.

“Mr. and Mrs. Talon, I’d like you to meet...”

“Carroll’s the name. Isabelle Carroll,” said the little woman who had suddenly risen to her feet behind the tea tray. There she stood, all five feet of her, thin-framed and frail, with light red spit-curls cascading over her delicate forehead. A tiny pair of glasses rested precariously on the bridge of her nose.

“And this is Alister, my husband,” she said playing with a double strand of huge pearls that hid completely any creepy or loose skin that might hang about her neck.

Ron nodded. “How are you?”

“Never ask an old man how he is. He’s liable to tell you.”

“Now, Alister, behave,” she smiled.

Ron kept his gaze fixed on the old man. Beneath highly lacquered silver hair he saw a bright, very clever face, a thin mouth, fluffy eyebrows, watery blue eyes, sharp and observant, and a slender neck above his open plaid shirt and vest.

“Please,” Mrs. Taylor coaxed. “Won’t you be seated.”

Chandal quickly slid into a stuffed chair near the fireplace while Kristy selected a position on the piano bench. Ron remained standing.

“And you, young lady—” Isabelle was saying to Kristy. “How are you enjoying our little town so far?”

“It’s all right.”

“Oh, Alister. Isn’t she exquisite? I’ve never seen such a beautiful child. She looks like a goddess. Doesn’t she, Alister? Just like a goddess.”

Isabelle went on talking, all the while smiling, maintaining eye contact, holding Kristy impaled. She quizzed her about her likes and dislikes and then pumped her about their vacation, after which she declared her own preference which was Europe.

She began making comparisons when Alister gave a significant dry cough and turned to Ron. “So you’ve come to the mountains looking for some good old-fashioned country values, is that it?” he asked.

“Something like that.”

“To make contact with real people. Well, you’ve come to the right place. My wife, Isabelle—hell, she’ll make you feel right at home. She’s a one-woman welcoming committee all by herself. A real—”

“Damn it, Alister,” his wife said. “You’re always such a one to mock. With people getting lost all the time, how can it hurt to have someone around to help?”

“Does it happen often?” Ron asked.

“What’s that?” Mrs. Taylor inquired.

“People getting lost?”

“Now and again...” Alister smiled. “Now and again.”

Isabelle shrugged. “My husband is jealous because I’ve just been elected head of the Organizing Committee.”

“Not at all, dear. I’m happy you can still be useful.” He eyed Ron directly. “People usually wander out here wanting to see where it all began. Some stay, realizing all that fast living they’re doing in the cities isn’t getting them very far. Just into trouble.”

“Oh, really?” Isabelle stuck her nose in the air. “Is that why you watch those Charlie’s Angels running around half-naked every week? The man sits there and doesn’t utter a word. Not a word. Just sits there and stares.”

“And what do you expect me to do with legs like damn twigs. Do you expect me to start jogging?” he cried. “I’m just an old man now. All I can do is look. And—”

“Alister, hush up!” Isabelle’s voice contracted with her hazel eyes.

“I haven’t got the get up and go I used to. Nothing wrong with that.” The old man lit a cigarette, located a flowerpot by his right elbow to flick the match into, and seemed to inflate a bit upon taking the first satisfying drag on his cigarette.

“Alister, you just—”

“It’s all right, Isabelle,” Mrs. Taylor said. “Ash is very good for plants.”

“But he shouldn’t—”

“I think, Isabelle,” he said calmly, “you’ve said enough.”

“Enough?”

“That’s right. You’re as windy as a fart today, my dear.”

“I’m what?”

“Never mind,” he said smiling.

“Well! If you imagine I’m amused, you’re very much mistaken.”

“Well, perhaps if you would be so kind as to pour me a little more wine, I’d—”

“No!” She stared at him now, openly hostile.

“If you don’t,” he said with a sly grin, “I will not let you kiss me.”

“When you talk like that, I have no desire to kiss you.” She turned abruptly to Mrs. Taylor. “Erica, I’m sorry. To all of you, my apologies. Come along, Alister.”

The color in the woman’s face ebbed as quickly as it had mounted. With a defiant little nod, she hurried from the room.

“Righteous indignation,” Alister murmured. “You have just witnessed a splendid example of righteous indignation.” He rose slowly to his feet, each part of his body arriving at the standing position at different intervals.

“Here,” he said holding out his empty glass to Ron. “Keep an eye on this. If you should suddenly find it brimming with liquid, call me. I only live a few blocks over.”

“Glad you came, Alister?” asked Mrs. Taylor.

He nodded.

“Next time I may have a surprise for you.”

“At my age, I doubt it.” With a slight wave of his hand, he disappeared from the room. “Don’t bother to show me out,” he hollered from the hallway. “I know my way.” All paused as the front door closed with a dull thud.

“Interesting man, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Chandal said. “Yes, he is.”

“May I offer you a glass of wine?”

Chandal did not hesitate. “All right. Ron?”

“Just a little.”

“And for Kristy, let us see.” Mrs. Taylor paused. “How about... a Shirley Temple?”

Kristy smiled.

She was still smiling, at the same time slurping her drink loudly, when Ron began discussing the feasibility of staying with Mrs. Taylor until Monday, when the new tires would arrive, and the financial arrangements. Terms were arrived at. Chandal became enthusiastic; Ron wished he could be. God knew, he had reason to be. Mrs. Taylor had asked thirty dollars for the entire weekend and that included meals for all three of them. What he should do, he reasoned with some saving bit of humor, was spend the remainder of the vacation at Mrs. Taylor’s house. Not much fun perhaps, but he couldn’t afford fun. He could afford Mrs. Taylor’s. Still he remained skeptical. The cool air within the house had revived him, as had the wine. But not enough. He stood ponderously by the fireplace and thought: No. There was no discord. But neither did it feel like home.

“I will enjoy so much having a child in the house again,” Mrs. Taylor said, her red lips sparkling against her creamy complexion.

The last of the wine in Ron’s glass disappeared down his throat. Chandal followed his lead.

Mrs. Taylor smiled, then laughed softly. “The young. Oh, how I envy the young. Their eyes. Eyes that see everything in a new light. Fresh, wondrous, before life has twisted and distorted their vision. Children see beyond our eyes, into another dimension. Only children really have the Seeing Eyes.” She paused to look at Kristy. “Your daughter has Seeing Eyes. I noticed them as she came up the walk. Lovely eyes. Seeing Eyes,” she said, her voice trailing away into a whisper.

There was a sudden stillness in the house high up on the hill.

In the utter silence, the woman in lavender rose to her feet. “Well,” she said. “Shall I show you to your room?”