Borderland (14 page)

Christa
dropped the pitcher and watched in dismay as the grape Kool-Aid went
everywhere. She stared at her hand, and while staring, she felt the freezing
touch at the back of her neck, where loose strands of damp hair had escaped
from her ponytail. She whirled and backed up at the same time. A woman was
there. A woman in a long dress and no shoes. Her hair was long and brown and it
looked wet. Her eyes were two empty black orbs that seemed to go deeper than
the back of her head. Deeper even than the kitchen wall behind her.

Christa's
eyes rounded with fear as the woman reached out for her. The hand wasn't real,
it glowed blue at the tips of the fingers. Christa made a noise and shrank
away. Her feet slipped in the Kool-Aid and she landed on her bottom in the
grape puddle. She began to scream. The hand touched her damp head and Christa
felt a jolt go through her body. Her mouth snapped shut and she bit the end of
her tongue. Every hair on her scalp tingled and felt as if it were alive. Her
limbs jerked as if she was riding over a bumpy road with no way to hang on and
nothing to hang onto.

Then it
was over. There was a high ringing sound in her ears, a noise of distress, and
then she heard the sound of running feet. She felt the pounding through the wet
linoleum. She was scooped up into someone's arms, and she forced her fluttering
eyelids to stop fluttering long enough to focus on Myra. She couldn't hold her
eyelids open very long, so she closed them. She was suddenly so tired.

"What
happened?" Myra was asking. "Christa, what happened? Did you slip and
bump your head?"

She
wanted to say no, but she was too tired even to talk. She wanted to tell Myra
that the strange lady had electrocuted her like in the comic books, but that
she hadn't meant to. Christa knew the lady hadn't meant to because of the
terrible hurting sound she made. But she was already forgetting about sounds and
black eyes and blue fingers. She was so tired all she wanted to do was sleep.

"What
the hell's going on?" another voice asked. It was her daddy. He sounded
scared.

"She
was on the floor," Christa heard Myra say. "I think she may have
slipped and hit her head."

Fingers
began to probe her scalp. Then her daddy said, "I don't feel anything.
Could it be heat exhaustion?"

"She
doesn't feel clammy or cool," Myra answered. "And it looks like she's
still perspiring."

"Well,
dammit. Christa? Christa, are you all right, honey? Did you hurt
yourself?"

Christa
concentrated all her remaining energy and said, "I didn't bump anything,
Daddy."

Then she
allowed herself to sleep.

When she
woke, she felt the fan blowing on her face. Her sister was sitting on the bed
beside her. Andy looked at her and said, "Daddy, she's awake now."

Her
father came to the bed. His face looked old, Christa thought. She tried to
smile at him.

"How
do you feel?" he asked. "Do you hurt anywhere?" "No,"
she said.

"You've
been asleep for almost two hours. Are you sure you didn't bump your head?"

"I'm
sure," she said.

"Well
what happened?" he asked.

Christa
took a breath. "I was in the kitchen getting some Kool-Aid and this lady
was in there with me. When she touched me I dropped the pitcher and the
Kool-Aid spilled. I slipped and she electrocuted me with her hand when she
touched my head. But I'm all right now."

Her
father smiled. Then he laughed. "Honey, I'm not mad about the spilled
Kool-Aid. I just want to know what happened. You don't have to make up any
stories."

Christa
frowned. "I'm not. She had blue fingers."

"And
big black eyes," Andy said.

Christa
immediately looked at her sister. Andy dropped her gaze to her hands and then glanced
up at Christa again. In that second of silent sisterly communication, Christa
realized that she had met Andy's imaginary lady. Only she wasn't imaginary at
all.

"Yes,
Daddy," Christa said. "Her eyes were real funny-looking. They made me
think of that place you took us to once with the deepest hole in the
world."

"The
well in Greensburg?" he said. Then he smiled again. "And I suppose
she had fangs, like the monster in the movie you watched with Nolan last
night?"

Christa
looked at Andy and sighed. She guessed it was going to have to be their secret.
"I didn't see any fangs. But she wears a real long dress."

"And
she doesn't have any shoes," Andy added, smiling at her sister. "I've
seen her too."

CHAPTER 11

"I
can't believe you stole that fan," Cal repeated for the third time.
"Right out from under his nose."

"You
could build a house under that guy's nose," Nolan said with a scowl.
"The sonofabitch charged me twenty bucks more than that gas tank is worth
and both of us knew it. I just figured I'd take it out in trade. And listen,
kid that extra twenty bucks is between me and you. Vic doesn't have to know how
much the thing cost. All right?"

Cal
nodded. "Fine. But I'd feel better if we tell Mom we bought the fan. I
don't think she'd like the idea of your stealing it from the guy's
office."

Nolan
made a noise that turned into a chuckle. "Just imagine his face when he
finishes screwing that other poor sap and walks in to find it gone. If the next
guy screws us maybe we'll get one for you."

"No
way," Cal said. "And there's only one more place we can check, the
one just over the border. My dad took me there once when he was looking for a
bumper for Darwin's Lincoln."

My dad.
It was the first time Cal had spoken of him. Nolan decided to snoop a little.
"Guess your dad was a Mustang freak, huh?"

"That's
my Mom's car. Dad drove a BMW."

Nolan
expressed his surprise in the flicker of one brow. "What happened to it?
The BMW."

"It
went back to Texas along with the rest of his stuff. He was born there. So was
I."

Beneath
the boy's blasé tone, Nolan detected a hint of hostility. He decided to cut to
candor. "You didn't like him very much."

Cal
lifted one shoulder. "He was a jerk, always running off on us. Half the
time we didn't know where he was."

Nolan
took his eyes off the road to glance over. "I can't see your mother
putting up with that."

"She
preferred his absence to his presence," Cal said. "So did I. He gave
her the crabs once."

The
Buick swerved a little. "She told you that?"

"No,
I saw the prescription shampoo stuff in the bathroom. The prescription had his
name on it, but she was using it. He was gone."

Nolan
didn't know why he felt embarrassed. He didn't know who he felt embarrassed
for—himself, Myra, or Cal.

"Why
come out here with him?" he asked when his neck had cooled.

"We
followed him out here," Cal said. "And boy was he pissed. He accused
my mom of trying to interfere with what he wanted to do."

"And
what was that?"

"Learn
about breeding horses. Except I don't think he did, really. Want to learn, I
mean. He was into something new every six months or so. He never stuck with
anything."

Nolan
glanced over again. "What did he do for a living?"

"Sponge,"
Cal said. "And I'll save you the trouble of asking the next question. My
mom married him because she was pregnant with me. And she didn't tell me that,
either. I figured it out for myself."

"I
wasn't going to ask you that," Nolan replied. "I was going to ask you
where the hell my next turn is." It was a lie, but hey. He didn't want to
upset the kid.

"I'll
tell you when we're there," Cal said. "It's another ten miles or so.
We haven't even crossed the border yet."

Nolan
switched on the radio to indicate that he was through asking questions. Nothing
but static answered his fingers. Without being asked, Cal leaned forward to
find a station. There were none without heavy static, and he finally switched
it off again. "Guess you'll just have to sing," he said, and Nolan could
hear the grin in his voice.

"You
making fun of me, kid?"

"Me?
Oh gosh, mister, no."

"Punk,"
Nolan said. "That's why I stopped singing in the first place. Smartass
little punks like you."

"You
mean people ridiculed you because you sound like Elvis?"

"How
do you know--never mind." Nolan wasn't interested in continuing that
particular line of conversation. "Just keep your eyes open for that
turn."

Al's
Autowreckers had Mustangs aplenty, most of them skeletons without innards. It
seemed Al was about to close the place down. He was the fifth owner in fourteen
years, he explained, and not even Al Dunwoodie, formerly of Denver Used Car
Driveaway, could make a living out here. He was too far away from the big
towns. Plenty of little towns, sure, but no big-town business other than by
phone and even that was slacking off. Al was a big man, big and intense, so
Nolan found it in his favor to listen to the red-fisted man's obligatory
country comment about the shape the nation was in. Al was convinced it had
something to do with paper towel manufacturers.

"I'm
telling you, and you should just listen and think about this. Those cocky
little Asians are walking all over us. Why? I'll tell you why. Does the world
really need one more brand of paper towel? New, improved, what the hell difference
does it make? You use it and that's that. You don't devote too much of your
time to thinking about paper towels.

"Same
thing with your deodorants, perfumes, and hairsprays. We've got dozens of
brands on the shelf now, and some coldhearted bastard is puttin' out rabbits'
eyes to come up with one more. They all serve one purpose, right? You wipe your
ass with toilet paper, you shave with razor blades—and I defy you to show me
one silly sonofabitch who can tell the difference between a double blade shave
and a triple. I mean seriously. And all the time they're comin’ out with new
products that do the same goddamn thing.

"My
question is—and you boys look smart so maybe you can answer it—why don't they use
some of those billion ungodly dollar labs to do some real research? We don't
need another brand of paper towel, and we sure as hell don't need another brand
of goddamned dog food since all they do is make every damned veterinarian in
the country rich. Hell, we don't even need another fucking make of car!"
He waved his heavily muscled arm to encompass the yard. "Until the
sonofabitches come up with one that flies, why don't they repair the damn
highways and give some billions to the guys that're working on giving us
superconductors? You see what I'm saying here?"

Nolan
saw. But he was glad Al had stopped for breath—the man's face had been turning
blue. He liked the big, surly bastard. Old Al had made some good points, but he
needed to work on his delivery before running for office.

"I
know the answer to your question," Cal said in a quiet, serious voice.

Al wiped
some spit from the corner of his mouth and looked at the boy, waiting.

"They
sell us what we don't need because they know we'll buy it," Cal said.
"It's greed. That's all."

"Yeah,"
Al said his voice suddenly soft. "It damn sure is. I'm not an educated
man, but even I can see that. Ain't no wondering why the whole rest of the
civilized world calls Americans stupid, is there?" He cleared his throat
then and hooked his hands through the straps of his overalls. "Must be
obvious I ain't had anyone to blow to in a while. Let's see now. You boys were
after a radiator for a sixty-eight Mustang. That right?"

"Right,"
Nolan said.

"All
right. See if we can't come up with something for you." Al looked at Cal
then. "If you don't mind, I'll ask you to stay in range of the office and
listen for my phone. I'm expecting a call from Denver shortly and I don't want
to miss it. Can you handle that?"

"Sure,"
Cal said. "If anyone calls, I'll ask them to hold on."

"Much
obliged," Al said. He rearranged his genitals then struck off across the
yard. Nolan followed him, and when he caught up with the mountainous man's long
stride he found himself admitting that he'd never thought about the number of
product brands available.

"Most
people don't," Al said with a grunt. "They're just happy to be
suckered into the next new and improved parcel of shit. Buncha goddamn zombies.
Makes me sick. Maybe they'll wake up when China finishes kicking our economic
ass and—whoa, there's what we need."

Nolan
followed Al's sharp gaze to a rusted black Mustang without a back end: Half a
car. Nothing left in the front interior but one seat and the dash. The steering
wheel was gone.

"Train,"
Al said. "Sold the engine a few months ago to a couple of kids. They
didn't need the radiator. Couple of richies, too, and that gave me a little
spark. It's good to see 'em work for something of their own rather than take
Daddy's money and buy that Porsche. You know?"