Dust of Eden (10 page)

And then her left foot planted just short of the pipe, and she felt the shingle reseat itself flat to the roof, and she knew instantaneously that the base of the pipe extended out under the shingles and that her left foot was pinning it down. So now she dropped her right foot on the other side, pinning that half too, and grabbed the pipe and squatted back on her fanny with her weight still pressing down on the hidden extension of the base. Nothing moved.

Equilibrium.

It wasn't the kind of thing you'd want to try after a heavy
meal
—she could feel the delicate friction beneath the soles of her shoes as she rocked slightly—but she could land like a butterfly, and all she had to do now was push off evenly. Which she did. Changing from butterfly to grasshopper, she leaped with both feet at once, and in another moment she had the chimney to brace on as she gazed up at the eight-sided thing on the roof.

Even if it took her a couple of tries, she would definitely be able to scramble all the way up because she could push off as hard as she wanted from the chimney, whereas the lightning rod would not have given her enough momentum. Some of the slats were broken out of the cupola, and she thought she could wriggle in once she reached the ridge. There was one thing, though. What was in the cupola? Meeting ghosts didn't seem all that good of an idea, suddenly. Because the way the slats were broken—all jagged and pointing in one direction—it looked like something had smashed its way in with one swipe. And even though she couldn't be sure it came from the cupola, she smelled a new kind of dampness and rot. Like the black mud down by the marsh. Decayed like that. You inhaled it and you felt like you were underwater, gulping down mouthfuls of green slime and gritty stuff that swam and multiplied inside you. She didn't mind heights, but she didn't like to be touched when she couldn't control the contact. And when slimy things touched you
inside
, you had no control at all.

So the more she thought about it, the less she liked it. Something up there might be watching her, and she was about to rush into its claws.
Well, well, my dear, you've come just in time for dinner—and you're it!
But what if there wasn't anything up there? It really was a neat hideout, a cool place to crash whenever she wanted, high above the world, like the eagles aerie back in the woods her father had talked about, a place where she could be sure no one would reach her. At least she could climb to the ridge a few feet away from the broken slats and check it out, she decided.

Bracing one foot against the chimney, the other under her body, she rocked back and charged the steep pitch. Up, up she went, half standing, half lunging, until just when she had lost all momentum her fingers caught the crest of the roof. For a critical second while she straddled the ridge, she lost track of the octagon. Time enough for something
taloned
or fanged to fly shrieking into her face, tearing at her eyes or the softness of her throat. But then she faced around and heard only the rattle of grit or maybe a rat in the leaves banked where the valleys met the eaves. Silence followed. Nothing moved in the cupola. Nothing scurried or fluttered or rushed out at her.

She inched forward, using her knees and her hands, hoping she remained in line with the chimney in case she had to bail out but afraid to look away from the inky darkness beyond the slats. The stench—that bottom-of-the-world odor—was overpowering now. Things had probably died in the cupola, she thought. Pigeons and things. So the smell of decay wasn't really surprising. She crept closer, right next to the broken facing now, and that was when she thought she heard a rustling. It wasn't a big rustling. More like a mouse. Would a mouse stay there if something bad was inside? Drawing her legs up one at a time until she was balanced on the ridge, she poked in.

Something breathed past her face. The spirit of the cupola leaving. Gone before she could become alarmed. Carefully she pawed the darkness, then waddled through until she found herself crouching on a platform. The funny thing was that the odor inside wasn't so bad, even though it had pretty bad outside. The second thing she noticed was that she could see the blue velvet sky through all the slats. In a few seconds she could make out the geometric contrasts of board ends and wood frames. Then she distinguished shades of gray. Then she could separate the eight sides. Cool, she decided (kids still said "cool"). Except for a couple of slippery spots where rain had dripped on the platform, it was dry. She felt safe here, like she was wearing armor. Girl in a cage.

But no ghosts. A little disappointment; a little relief. She really would like to meet a ghost. Not one gushing blood as it staggered across the fields maybe, but a nice sad one floating around lost. Like Topper. You couldn't get
Topper
on TV anymore. Not even reruns like she used to watch in the 60s. She sat in the cupola a few minutes longer, listening to the wind and thinking about the things she could move up here to make it a kind of a clubhouse, and then she crawled back out to start the descent.

Sliding down to the chimney was a piece of cake, and now that she knew how to keep her weight straddled around the base of the pipe and push off again, that was no problem either. The lightning rod was a little trickier, because she had to stop her momentum by going a couple of steps against the pitch of the roof, then dragging and scuffing as she slid so that she didn't hit the gutter or the lightning rod too hard. But she did that okay too. One scrape from bracing with her elbow coming off the shingles, but heck, she got those just leaning her elbows on the dinner table.

She lowered the window sash in the sewing room and passed downstairs, listening for sounds from her mother's room. If anyone heard her on the roof, it would be her mother, though probably she would think it was a raccoon. So Amber wasn't expecting anybody when she got to the first floor. And that was when she saw the ghost.

It was floating slowly through the dining room beyond the arch. Tall, thin, its silver hair kind of glowing. She froze at the foot of the stairs, waiting to see if it would know she was there and turn and grin with rotten teeth and maybe lift its hands like a strangler. But if it knew she was there, it didn't care. And it kind of groped through the gloom, touching things, melting into them and reappearing again. A ghost for sure. She took a step to follow, and then another—long and darting—like a game of Mother, May I or Red Light, Green Light, where you snuck up as close as possible while the person had his back turned. And now she could see that the ghost wasn't walking right through objects, but just passing through shadows. And then she heard it breathing.

Breathing?

Ghosts didn't breathe. The hair on this one wasn't really glowing either. Up close it was thin and white and stuck up where it kind of gathered the moonlight. She waited until he reached the faint illumination that crossed a threshold from the
sunporch
with its large windows, and then she hopped alongside.

"Who are you?" she challenged.

He stopped, then turned his straining eyes on her. "Where are we?" he asked.

"In the house, of course."

More peering, as if to reconcile contradictions.

"You're the new resident," Amber said.

"I am?"

"I'm Amber."

"You shouldn't be here."

"Why not?"

"It's dangerous."

"You're here."

"That doesn't matter. I've lived too long anyway."

She studied him. "Why is it dangerous?"

He looked back at her, looked away, looked back again. "They might find you."

"Who?"

"Better get rid of your Japanese money, if you have any. They'll cut off your head, if you have anything you've taken off a body."

"I don't have any Japanese money," she said.

"Good."

"Are you trying to find your room?"

". . . No. We've got to steal some food and take it back."

He craned in the direction of the light.

"I can get you food," Amber said. He looked like he might be starving, she thought, but that was because he was old—older than anyone in the house probably.

She led him a few steps at a time, pausing for him to catch up, until they were in the kitchen, and there she opened the refrigerator and stood aside.

"You want some yogurt? The lemon is the best. But the cherry is good too. You can have both, if you want." The light from the refrigerator fell on her, and his eyes were suddenly intent. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I didn't know it was you."

"Yup. It's me, Amber."

"You're Tiffany."

 
Amber."

He lost half a beat, huffed a curt laugh of disbelief. She considered. "You can call me Tiffany, if you want."

"Mm-h," he said with a nod. "Where are we?"

"We're in the house. You said you wanted food."

"I'm not hungry."

"You said you were."

He shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

She puckered her rosebud mouth, tilted her head. "You got that
Weisenheimer
disease or something, mister? I seen it on
Oprah
last week."

"Mm-h. Where are we?"

"I'm gonna take you to your room, okay? I saw them cleaning it out for you a couple days ago."

He let her pluck his sleeve and lead him to the corridor, and twice he hesitated before a door, thinking it was his own. When she took him to the right place and helped him lie back on his mattress, the energy that had gone to his body seemed to flood back into his face. "I've got to get food for the others," he said, trying to sit up.

"It's okay. You stay here, and I'll bring you food every night, if you want. Just don't leave any crumbs, okay? Molly gets mad if you leave crumbs."

He lay back again.

"I'm going now, mister."

He called to her again when she was at the door. "You don't have any Japanese money on you, do you?"

"No. I got rid of it."

"Good. They're beheading anyone with souvenirs."

It was sad to be that old. Sad to say you didn't care if you died. Amber climbed back to her sanctuary on the roof and thought about her father in a wheelchair, aging like that. It didn't seem fair. Why had her mother brought him back? Even though he was an abuser, you shouldn't punish someone forever. If he was bad, he would've been in hell and probably come back all burned. But he wasn't burned, so maybe he wasn't so bad after all. The heat lightning flashed from the horizon, stabbing between the weathered slats of the cupola, catching the whites of her eyes. Too bad she wasn't the magic painter instead of her mother. Too bad she didn't have the magic paints.

And that made her think.

Why not? She could steal the paints. And then she could practice. And when she was good enough . . .

"W
hat is this place?"

Martin squinted up from the bed like he'd been lying there since yesterday just waiting to ask the question. Denny felt guilty already.

"It's called New Eden."

"Never heard of it. I want to go home."

The Nightmare Assertion. Denny had known "I want to go home" was coming. Known he would have to deal with it, knew there was no answer for it. He kissed his father's forehead, and the old man's muzzy blue eyes followed him to the captain's chair by the windows.

"I know you do, Dad, but you weren't safe at home."

Martin Bryce looked away, and his chest seemed to collapse a little. "Who cares?"

"I care."

"I don't know why I have to live so long. You should just . . . just leave me alone."

"You know I can't do that, Dad."

"Why not?"

Let me die. Call Doctor Kevorkian. Time for Jack the Dripper. Bring in the elixir of death, set up the tubes and the bottle
. . . . Denny had heard it a thousand times. Was defeated each time his father wished for death. It was bad enough when his mother had been alive—so hard on her—but his father hadn't meant it then. Now he did.

They argued in that slow, loving way that had evolved somehow. Pathos, humor. Negotiating death. The father reviving slightly with the son's attention; the son dying a little:

If you don't care for any other reason, then care for me, Dad. You can't ask me to let you go like that.

Why can't I?

I'm not trying to keep you alive beyond your time. But you're healthy. You're not in any pain.

I am in pain.

Hey, old man, when God puts the death certificate in your hand, I'll sign off, but not a moment sooner. Maybe I'll even leave your head sticking out of the ground for a tombstone. Okay? Okay?

Polemics. The flow was circular. Stalemate.

"Ariel is complaining about you, Dad. You've got to cooperate, you know."

"Who's Ariel?"

"Woman who runs this place."

"They're all women here."

"Mostly. I guess that's the problem. She says you keep going in other people's rooms. She says one of the women found you asleep on her bed and that you tried to hug her. Nice
goin
', guy."