I Will Fear No Evil (49 page)

“Gigi—get back. Hello, Ski. Hi, Fred.”

“Hi, Joe.”

Joan tried to keep her voice steady. “Joe, may I come in?”

He finally looked at her. “You want to, sure. Come in, Ski. Fred.” Joe stood aside.

Dabrowski answered for them. “Uh, not this time, Joe. Thanks.”

“Roz. Other time, any. Welcome. Too, Fred.”

“Thanks, Joe. See you.” The guards turned to leave as Joan started to enter—she checked herself, remembering that she must do something. “Boys!”

Fred kissed her quickly, nervously. Dabrowski did not kiss her; instead he held his mouth to hers and said almost soundlessly, “Eunice, you be good to him. Or, damn, I’ll spank you.”

“Yes, Anton. Let me go.” Quickly she turned, went inside past Joe, waited. Slowly he refastened the hand bolts, taking an unnecessarily long time.

He turned and glanced at her, glanced away. “Sit?”

“Thank you, Joe.” She looked around at the studio clutter, saw two straight chairs at a small table. They seemed to be the only chairs; she went to one of them, waited for him to remove her cloak—realized that he was not going to do so, then took it off and dropped it, sat down.

He frowned at her, seemed uncertain, then said, “Coffee? Gigi! Java f’ Miss Smith.”

The girl had been watching from the far end of the room. She tightened her wrapper and went silently to a kitchen unit beyond the table, poured a cup of coffee, and prepared to flash it. Joe Branca went back to an easel near the middle of the room, started making tiny strokes on it; Joan saw that it was an almost finished painting of the young woman addressed as “Gigi.” (That’s a cheat pic, Boss.) (A what?) (Project a photo onto sensitized canvas, then paint over it. Joe does them if someone wants cheesecake, or a cheap portrait, or a pet’s picture—but claims they aren’t art.)

(Can’t see why, Eunice; it’s still an original oil painting.) (I can’t, either—but it matters to an artist. Boss, this place is filthy, I’m ashamed of it. That bitch Gigi.) (She lives here, you think?) (I don’t know, Boss. Could be Joe’s sloppy housekeeping. He likes things clean—but won’t stop to do it. Only two things interest Joe. Painting . . . and tail.) (Well, he has both, looks like. I see he’s kept your Gadabout.) (I’ll bet it won’t run by now. Joe can’t drive.)

Gigi fetched coffee, placed it on the table. “Sugar? Isn’t any cream.” She leaned closer, added in a fierce whisper, “You don’t belong here!”

Joan answered quietly, “Black is fine. Thank you, Gigi.”

“Gigi!”

“Yes, Joe?”

“Throne.”

The girl turned and faced him. “In front of
her?
”

“Now. Need you.”

Slowly Gigi obeyed, untying her wrapper as she moved, dropped it as she stepped up onto the throne, fell into pose. Joan did not look, understanding her reluctance—not modesty but unwillingness to be naked to an enemy. (But I’m
not
her enemy, Eunice.) (Told you this would be rhino, Boss.)

Joan tried the coffee, found it too hot—and too bitter, after the delicately fragrant—and expensive-high-altitude brew Della prepared. But she resolved to drink it, once it had cooled.

She wondered if Joe recognized what she was wearing. La Boutique had reconstructed, at great expense, a costume Eunice Branca had once worn, one in last year’s “Half & Half” style, scarlet and jet, with a tiny ruffle skirt joining a left-leg tight to a right-side half sweater. Joan had hired the most expensive body-paint artist in the city and had rigidly controlled him in reconstructing the design Eunice Branca had worn with it, as nearly as memory and her inner voice could manage.

(Eunice, was Joe too upset to notice how we dressed?) (Boss, Joe sees
everything
.) (Then he’s gone back to painting
not
to notice us.) (Maybe. But Joe wouldn’t stop painting for an H-bomb. That he let us in at all is a blue moon—in the middle of a painting.)

(How long will he paint? All night?) (Not likely. He does that only for a real inspiration. This one’s easy.) It did not look easy to Joan. She could see that the artist was working from an exact cartoon, one that looked like a dim photograph of Gigi as she was posed—but he was working also from his model, yet he was not following either model or photograph. He was enhancing, exaggerating, simplifying, making flesh tones warmer, turning flat canvas almost into stereo, realistic as life, warmer than life, sensuous and appealing.

Perhaps it was not “art”—but it was more than a photograph. It reminded Joan of a long-dead artist Johann had liked. What was his name?—used to paint Tahitian girls on black velvet. Leeteg? (Eunice, what do we do now? Walk out? Joe doesn’t seem to care either way.) (Boss, Joe cares
dreadfully
. See that tic on his neck?) (Then what do I
do?
)

(Boss, all I can tell you is what I would do.) (Wasn’t that what I said?) (Not quite. Any time I came home and found Joe working from another model, I kept quiet and let him work. First I would get out of my working clothes, then shower and get off every speck of paint and makeup. Then tidy things—just tidy, heavy cleaning had to wait for weekends. Then I would get things ready to feed them, because Joe and his model were going to be hungry once they stopped. They always did stop; Joe won’t overwork a model. Oh, he sometimes painted me all night but he knew I would ask to stop if I got shaky.)

(Are you telling me to strip down? Won’t that upset him still more?) (Boss, I’m not telling you to do
anything.
This visit wasn’t
my
idea. But he’s seen our body thousands of times—and you ought to know by now that nakedness isn’t upsetting, it’s relaxing. I felt that it was rude to stay dressed when a model was nude—unless I was certain she was easy with me. But I’m
not
telling you to do this. You can go look out the peep and see if Anton and Fred are still there—they will be—and unbolt the door and leave. Admit you can’t put Humpty-Dumpty together again.)

(I suppose I should.) Joan sighed, stood up—kicked her sandals off, peeled the half-sweater down, shoved the ruffle skirt down, and got out of the tight. Joe could not see her, but Gigi could—Joan saw surprise in her eyes but she did not break her pose.

Joan looked at her and put a finger to her lips, then picked up dress and cloak and sandals, headed for the bath unit while avoiding (she thought) Joe’s angle of vision—hung her clothes on a rack outside the bath and went in.

It took only minutes of soap and shower to rid her body of jet and scarlet. (Face makeup off, too?) (Forget it, you don’t wear as much as I used to. Towels in the cabinet under the sink. Or should be.)

Joan found one clean bath towel, three face towels, decided that it wasn’t fair to grab the last bath towel, and managed to get dry with a face towel, looked at herself in the mirror, decided that she was passable—and felt refreshed and relaxed by the shower. (Where do I start?) (Here of course. Then make the bed but see it if needs changing. Sheets in the box with bed lamp on it.)

The tiny bath took little time as scouring powder and plastic sponge were where they almost had to be. The toilet bowl she was forced to give up on-she got it clean but stains left by flushing water did not respond to scrubbing. Joan wondered why a civilization that could build mighty spaceships could not cope with plumbing?

Or was it a civilization?

She washed her hands and went out. The bed seemed to have been slept in no more than a couple of nights; she decided it would be presumptuous to change sheets. As she was straightening the bed she noticed lipstick on one pillow—turned it over, (Gigi?) (Might be, Boss, it’s her shade. Proves nothing.)

(Now what?) (Work around the edges—don’t ever touch Joe’s stuff. You can pick up a tube of paint and dust under it . . . but
only
if you put it down exactly where you found it.)

The edges kept her busy for a time. It seemed likely that Joe must have noticed her—but he gave no sign. The painting seemed finished but he was still working on it.

The sink was loaded; she found soap powder and got busy.

Once she had dishes washed, dried, and put away, and the sink was sparkling as the dishes, she looked over the larder. (Eunice, did you keep house with so few staples?) (Boss, I didn’t keep many perishables on hand—but this is skimpier than
I
ever kept it. Joe doesn’t
think
about such things. I never let him shop—because he would come back with some new hungry friend, having forgotten the bread and bacon and milk I had sent him for. Try the freezer compartment.)

Joan found some Reddypax in freeze—dinners, a carton of vanilla ice cream almost full, spaghetti, pizza of several sorts. There were more of the last, so she decided she could not go wrong offering them pizza. What else? No fresh vegetables—Fruit? Yes, a small can of fruit salad, hardly enough but she could put it over scoops of ice cream, plus wafers if she could find any. Yes, lemon snaps. Not much of a meal but she didn’t have much to work with. She started getting things ready.

Set the table for three? Well, she was either going to be accepted—or sent home; she set it for three. (Eunice, there are only two chairs.) (The kitchen stool adjusts in height, Boss.) (I’m stupid.) (Wouldn’t have bet you could find your way around a kitchen at all.) (Maybe I wouldn’t have learned if Mama had had a daughter. I’ll bet I’ve cooked more meals than you have, sweetheart—not that this is cooking.)

Just as Joan had everything laid out she heard Joe say, “Rest, Gigi.”

She turned around. “Joe, will you two have supper now? It’s ready to flash.”

Joe Branca turned at her voice, looked at her—started to speak, and with pitiful suddenness went to pieces.

His features broke, he started to sob, his body slowly collapsed. Joan hurried toward him—and stopped abruptly. (
Boss!
Don’t touch him!) (Oh, God, Eunice!) (Don’t make it worse. Gigi has him. Down on the floor, fast! Om Mani Padme Hum.)

Joan dropped into Lotus seat. “Om Mani Padme Hum.” Gigi had given him a shoulder, eased him down. He sat on the floor with his head against his knees, sobbing, while Gigi knelt by him, her face showing the ages-old concern of a mother for a hurt child. “Om Mani Padme Hum.” (Om Mani Padme Hum.) (Can’t I help her, Eunice?) “Om Mani Padme Hum.” (No, Boss. Ask Gigi to help
you
.) (How?) “Om Mani Padme Hum.” (Ask for a Circle. Om Mani Padme Hum.)

“Gigi! Help me form a Circle.
Please!”

The girl looked up, looked very startled as if seeing Joan for the first time.

“Om Mani Padme Hum. Help me, Gigi—help us both.”

Gigi slid into Lotus seat by her, knee to knee, reached for Joan’s left hand, took Joe’s right hand. “Joe! Joe, you must listen! Close the Circle with us.
Now!
” She started chanting with Joan.

Joe Branca stopped sobbing, looked up, seemed not to believe what he saw. Then slowly he straightened his legs, moved until he filled the third side of the triangle and tried to assume the Padmasana. His paint-smeared shorts were too confining; they got in the way. He looked down, seemed puzzled, then started unfastening them. Gigi let go his hand and Joan’s, helped him get them off. Then he settled easily into Lotus, reached for their hands. “Om Mani Padme Hum!”

As the Circle closed Joan felt a shock through her body, somewhat like electricity. She had felt it before, with three, with four, but never so strongly. Then it eased off to a sweet feeling of warmth. “Om Mani Padme Hum.”

The prayer rolled around the Circle, rolled back, and was chanted in unison. They were still softly whispering when Joan stopped feeling or hearing anything—other than utter peace.

“Wake. Wake up. Come back.”

Joan fluttered her eyelids, felt her eyeballs roll down. “Yes, Winnie? I’m awake.”

“You said you had supper ready to flash. Want to do it? Or shall I?”

“Oh.” She became aware that the Circle was still closed. “I’ll do it. If I may.”

Joe looked inquiringly into her face, his own face serene. “You okay? Good vibes?”

“She’s okay,” Gigi answered. “Go take a pee and we’ll get supper on. Wash your hands; I left turpentine in the medicine cabinet.”

“Okay.” He got up, gave a hand to each of the girls, pulled them to their feet together, turned to do as he was told.

Joan followed Gigi to the kitchen unit, noticed the clock of the flash oven. “Gigi, is that clock right?”

“Near enough. Do you have to leave? I hope not.”

“Oh, no, I can stay. But how long did we hold the Circle?”

“An hour, hour and half, maybe longer. Long enough. Does it matter?”

“No.” Joan put her arms around the other girl. “Thank you, Gigi.”

Gigi put her arms over Joan’s, hugged her. “Thank
you.
This is the first time I’ve seen Joe truly at one with the All, accepting his karma, at peace with it, since, uh, since—”

“Since Eunice was killed?”

“Yes. He’s kept coming back to the crazy notion that, if he hadn’t gone to Philly to see his Maw, it wouldn’t have happened. He knows that’s not so—but now he knows it in his belly, I can tell.” (Boss? Say hello to Gigi for me.) (Break cover?) (Oh, hell, we’d better not. I don’t
think
she’d tell Joe—but we can’t risk it. And things are okay the way they are.)

“Gigi, I think Eunice would want to thank you. If she could. Things look okay the way they are, now.”

“Looks like. Say, what do I call you? I can’t say, ‘Hey, you!’ But ‘Johann Sebastian Bach Smith’ seems like a hell of a name for a girl.”

“My name is Joan, now. Uh, my full name is ‘Joan Eunice Smith.’ But my middle name is, well, sort of a memorial. Rozzer?”

“Roz. That’s nice, I think that’s perfect—Joan Eunice.” (I think
you’re
perfect, Boss. You
did it!
You know why I didn’t want to come here? I was scared for Joe . . . but twice as scared for
me
.) (I knew, sweetheart. We both were scared. And so was Joe.)

“Gigi, better not use my middle name. Joe might be upset. Bad vibes.”

Gigi shook her head. “I don’t think so. If I’m wrong, if he needs to soak in the Circle some longer, tonight we’ve got the right Circle. Might not have, if he found out later.”