Long Black Curl (9 page)

“Not if they can help it.”

It was early evening, and the mountain shadows made it dark for all practical purposes. The trees and terrain kept the house hidden until the very last minute, when the SUV rounded a bend and emerged into a clearing. The headlights raked dramatically across the front porch, illuminating the old, intact Doric columns.

Nigel frowned at the dilapidated house, two stories tall, with gables on the roof. Several windows were boarded up; the remaining ones were dark.

An rust-rimmed pickup and a gigantic, ancient Ford sedan were parked next to each other, and on the porch rested a worn, battered refrigerator and stove. As they parked, two nondescript dogs, one bigger than the other, appeared and barked warnings.

“Hush up, you two,” Bo-Kate said as she climbed out. “Don't make me put a boot to your asses.”

The smaller dog yelped once at the sight of her and ran off into the darkness. The bigger one lowered its head submissively and skulked forward until she could pet it. It whined, and eventually its big tail thumped the ground.

“Missed me, huh?” Bo-Kate said.

“You know this dog?” Nigel asked.

“Of course I do. This is Stinkerbelle. Known her since she was a pup. That little one that ran off is Cheeto-Bear.”

“I thought you said you'd been gone from here for twenty-some years?”

Bo-Kate patted Nigel's smooth cheek. “Nigel, there's something you've got to realize about the Tufa, and I haven't told you about it, because there was no way you'd believe it sitting in Boscos on Twenty-first Avenue.”

“And that's what?”

“Time doesn't work the same for everybody. And it works real different for us.”

“Ah. So not only have you broken the laws of your country once today, you've now broken the laws of physics?”

“I just don't want you to be any more blindsided than you have to be.”

There was something new in her voice, a kindness he'd seldom heard before. He bowed his head slightly and said, “Well. Thank you, then.”

She turned to face the house. The SUV's headlights were still on, illuminating the faded wood. It might have been painted once, but the color had long since leached down to a slate-toned neutral gray. Except for the dogs, there was no sign of life. Then the headlights automatically clicked off, leaving them in almost-darkness.

“Chez Wisby,” Bo-Kate sighed.

“This is where you grew up?” Nigel said. “I know you said it was poverty, but somehow I imagined something less … poor.”

“No, this is it. Looks about the same, too.”

“Did you play in that refrigerator, then?”

“Daddy keeps his beer in there. And his venison in the freezer.”

“Venison is … Wait, don't tell me.…”

“Deer meat.”

“Dear me.”

“Ha.”

“And the stove? Does it work, too?”

“What, you've never heard of a cook-out?” He couldn't see if she was smiling, but he felt her humor.

“And we're supposed to stay here,” he continued. “Despite the, ah, rustic portico kitchenette, I hope we do get to sleep indoors.”

“Yep.”

“That was a perfectly pleasant-looking motel back in town, bobcat or no.”

“It is perfectly pleasant, but I'll never stay there. It belongs to one of the others.”

“Ah. The great schism you mentioned.”

The humor left her voice, replaced by the hard steel he knew so well. “It's not a ‘schism,' you pretentious jerk. It's a separation, one that's been around since the Tufa first came here.”

“And you're here to heal it.”

“I'm here to
end
it, smart-ass. That's different.” She pointed to one of the gables. “That was my room. I'd crawl out the window and jump to that tree to go see my boyfriend, Jeff. He was one of … the others. I tried not to like him, and he tried not to like me. But it was no use.”

“Your parents didn't approve of him?”

“That's putting it mildly.”

“How very Romeo and Juliet.”

“It's not a
joke,
Nigel. His parents would've shot me on sight, and mine would've done the same to him. You ever risked anything like that for love?”

“Then it truly was love?”

“It truly was a kind of love,” she said, her voice distant.

“But not the kind that lasts.”

She looked down at her boots in the snow. “I'm done talking about this.”

“Of course,” he agreed gently.

When she spoke again, her voice had its normal sarcasm. “So I should also warn you, my family
will
call you a nigger to your face.”

His eyebrows rose. “Will they?”

“They will. They'll watch you like a hawk, and treat you like a Martian. They won't hurt you, because you're with me, but I just want you to be prepared.”

“No worries. I've been called a Martian before.”

This made her smile. “All right, then. Let's get this over with.”

When they moved, the dog Stinkerbelle trotted around the side of the house and disappeared. On the porch, Nigel followed her example and stomped to dislodge the snow from his boots. Then she stepped to the door and firmly knocked. It rattled against the frame.

“Put your pants on, everyone, the prodigal has returned!” she called out. There was no answer. She opened the door.

Inside was an enormous room, made even larger by its singular lack of furniture. A semicircle of straight chairs was arranged around the hearth, where a tepid little fire fought the winter chill. Oil lamps burned on two small tables in the corners. Beyond this, bright electric light radiated from a kitchen where three people sat at the table. To Nigel, it was like standing in the nineteenth century and looking into the twenty-first.

On the wall was a large, strange painting of a baby, maybe a year old, standing on a chair. The baby's head seemed to float just above its body, with no neck to attach it. It was disconcerting, and to Nigel, a little creepy.

The two people visible in the kitchen, an old man and an elderly woman, turned to look. The man immediately jumped to his feet, his fists clenched, as if he expected a fight. He wore overalls and a John Deere baseball cap.

“Hey, Paw-paw,” Bo-Kate said as she took off her coat and handed it to Nigel. “That Memaw with you?”

“Bo-Kate,” the old woman said. She didn't stand up, but her whole body grew tense.

“It's Bo-Kate,” the man said to the third person, who sat just out of sight. Only a pair of slender, feminine bare feet could be seen.

“Just toss 'em on a chair,” Bo-Kate said to Nigel, and he draped their coats across the backs of two of the seats. Bo-Kate grinned, but didn't move any closer to her family. “Reckon y'all are surprised to see me.”

“Surprised ain't the word,” Paw-paw Wisby said. His given name was Beauregard, but even people unrelated to him called him Paw-paw. “Why don't you tell me why you're here.”

Bo-Kate raised her chin and sang in a sweet, pure voice:

To thee I'll return

Overburdened with care

My heart's dearest solace

Will smile on me there.

For a moment, there was no response. Then the bare feet withdrew from sight, followed by the scrape of a chair across the floor as the unseen person rose.

Nigel gasped as the newcomer stepped into the doorway.

She was a staggeringly beautiful, dark-haired girl of about twenty. Despite the weather, she wore scandalously short denim cut-offs and a threadbare, tight T-shirt with plainly nothing under it. She leaned against the doorframe and said in a low purr, “And who's your friend, Bo-Kate?”

“You just settle down, Tain,” Bo-Kate said. “He's mine.”

“Yours? You can buy and sell niggers again? I sure didn't see
that
on the news.”

“I warned you,” Bo-Kate asided to Nigel. To the girl, she said, “I just mean he's with me. Keep your hands to yourself. And any other body parts that might be inclined to trespass.”

“Let's not be too hasty,” Nigel said, and stepped forward. With British formality, he said, “I'm Nigel Hawtrey. I'm Ms. Wisby's executive assistant.”

“Listen to him talk all fancy,” Tain said. “Where you from, boy?”

“Manchester, originally.”

“That in England?” Tain asked. The word came out,
Aingland.

“It is. A beautiful place.” He looked her up and down appreciatively. “Though not as beautiful as some of the scenery around here.”

“Stop it,” Bo-Kate said to Nigel.

“No, let him keep going,” Tain said. “I like the way he talks.”

“Tain is my cousin,” Bo-Kate said. “My folks took her in after she got into some trouble.”

“What sort of trouble?” Nigel asked.

“Oh, not
that
kind,” Tain said. “What can I say? The trouble with trouble is, it starts out as fun.”

“Now Mom and Dad are trying to teach her the straight and narrow, to make up for me turning out like I did. Right, Memaw?”

“We took her in 'cause she's family,” the old woman said, still seated.

“That's right,” Tain said. She stood in such a way that her long legs and slender figure were highlighted against the bright glare from the kitchen. “But I'm not too straight, and I'm definitely not narrow.”

“Don't make me throw a bucket of water on you,” Bo-Kate warned. “Where are Snad and Canton?”

“They're around,” Paw-paw said evasively.

“Snad is out trapping coyotes,” Tain said. “Canton is tomcatting around with that middle Adams girl. I'm sure they'll come running when they hear their baby sister is back.”

“Don't be telling her nothing, Tain,” Paw-paw snapped.

“It ain't like it's a secret,” Tain said.

“We're here to stay for a while,” Bo-Kate said to her parents. “We'll take my old room. No need to do anything special for us.”

“
Why
are you here, Bo-Kate?” Paw-paw said. “And don't bullshit us by saying you missed us. The only way you'd miss us is if you were shootin' at us.”

“I see where you get your wit,” Nigel asided to her.

Bo-Kate ignored him. “Paw-paw, I'm here to do what Rockhouse Hicks never could: draw us all back under one pair of wings.”

“That can't be done, Bo-Kate.”

“Sure it can. It just needs a little outside perspective. And believe me, I've got that now.”

Memaw raised one gnarled hand and folded her fingers into a series of gestures. Bo-Kate raised her left hand and pretended to turn a crank on it with her right one; her middle finger rose. “Your signs don't mean a thing to me, Memaw.”

“You think—”

“I think I've been on the road all day today, and I'm tired. Come on, Nigel, before Tain makes your dick bust out and go dancing across the room to her.”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Nigel said to Paw-paw and Memaw. “Miss Wisby,” he added with an extra nod to Tain.

“Stop it, before you boldly go where every man has gone before,” Bo-Kate said, and dragged him away from the kitchen.

“I see he's a
personal
assistant, all right,” Tain called after them. “Y'all have fun. Try not to bust the bedframe.”

Bo-Kate led them up a staircase Nigel hadn't noticed when they came in. Nigel flashed a smile back at Tain as he followed. She was already watching for it, and simply nodded in response, like it was no surprise at all.

“Sharin' the same room?” Tain called after them with a mocking smile.

The second floor was dark, and Bo-Kate did not turn on any lights. Nigel could barely see to follow her as she made her way to one door and opened it. Only when they were both inside did she throw the switch.

The bedroom had a vaulted ceiling and a bed with a canopy. It was also pristine, as if the owner had left that morning, not a decade or more ago. Nigel stood holding their luggage, staring.

“This room is on top of the house we saw from outside?” he said. “Where exactly does it fit?”

“It's like that TV show,
Doctor Who.
It's bigger on the inside.”

“Oh, how quaint. We share a cultural reference.” But his humor did not mask his confusion.

And yet the strangest thing about the room wasn't its apparent freshness, but its decor. It looked as if it had come right out of the 1950s. Framed pictures of Elvis and other original rock-and-roll figures lined the top of the bureau, and magazine pages showing the same people were lovingly pinned to the walls. They weren't faded, but as fresh and glossy as if they'd been hung up yesterday. It didn't match up with the Bo-Kate he knew, who must, like him, have grown up in the '90s. Michael Jackson and Kurt Cobain belonged here, not Chuck Berry and Carl Perkins.

“How old did you say you were?” Nigel asked as he put down the suitcases.

“That's not a polite question to ask a lady,” Bo-Kate said as she sat at the vanity and took off her fur-topped snow boots.

“I apologize for my rudeness, but either you were the biggest fan of
Grease
there ever was, or we're going to sleep in a rockabilly museum exhibit.”

She chuckled. “I liked that kind of music when I was younger. Especially him.” She nodded at a photo on the wall. “Byron Harley. He died not five miles from here, did you know that? His plane went down right up on the mountain in the middle of the night. He burned up, along with Guy Berry and Large Sarge.” She bit her lip as she looked at the picture. “God, he was gorgeous, wasn't he?”

“I'm not qualified to judge.”

“Since when did you become an art critic?”

“Now that you mention it, my parsnip, who was that rather strange youngster in the painting downstairs?” Nigel asked.