The Edge of Madness Cafe (The Sea and the Wasteland Book 2) (39 page)

Ellen found herself in
the middle of the road, lost in thought, feeling the
tightening
of
reality, the stillness that belied the twisting universe. From the corner of
her eye, she thought she saw a figure in the street, motionless. But when she
turned, there was nothing there, only an empty street and a blur existing
perpetually on reality’s periphery like a ghost.

Maybe it was Jack?
she thought.
But why would he
disappear without talking to me?

In the other direction,
the street was just as empty, just as eerily abandoned. To one side, a white
garbage truck, no sign of the driver. But he left the steel beast behind like a
guard dog. It made her acutely aware of standing in the middle of the road, not
moving, caught between choices that were not altogether choices … and
hesitating.

He who hesitates is
lost.

Maybe I should have
left before
, she
thought suddenly, looking at the frozen world, the dead space.
Maybe I lost
my window.

She heard a sudden
wrapping against glass, knuckles upon a thick windowpane that forced her eyes
to break away from the pale hauler.

Serena was moving like a
shadow just inside the coffee shop. Ellen saw her, saw her rap the glass a
second time and wave her inside, wave her out of the middle of the road like an
indulgent guardian. Then she disappeared, lost behind the glass, only dark
reflections of herself standing in the empty street. And behind her, caught in
the reflection, she thought she saw Mr. Dabble staring out the window at her
back, watching her, his face fraught with emotion.

But when she turned back,
the ghostly image was gone.

Ellen quickly crossed to
the coffee shop and stepped inside, closing the door behind her, the bell
chiming in rapid succession. She looked back, but found everything
unchanged, the bookstore dark and
empty, the street still deserted.

Keep it together
,
she thought fiercely.
For
Jack’s sake.

“Ellen, thank goodness.”
The proprietor of the coffee shop said, oblivious to Ellen’s haunted gaze, her
usual poise and calm looking frayed. “I feel terrible imposing upon you, but
I’m afraid that with the morning rush, I haven’t been able to get anything done
for this afternoon’s tea. If you could be so good as to help me set up, I would
be ever so grateful. I wouldn’t ask, but they will be here in fifteen minutes, and
I am running short on time.”

“If this is a bad time,
we could—” Ellen was already turning towards the door, sensing herself
strangely
out of place,
lost at sea in water well over her head, and unaware of it for the darkness.

“Nonsense,” Serena said,
running a wet rag across a countertop of splattered coffee stains, spilled
sugar granules, forgotten stir sticks. “I invited you for tea and it would be
unforgivable of me to cancel now, so late and without warning. Besides,” she
added, nimbly collecting crumpled napkins and forgotten cups, “I could use your
help if you wouldn’t mind?”

Ellen nodded, caught in
Serena’s implacable gaze.

“You’re a saint. Just
turn the sign in the door so that everyone knows we’re closed, and follow me
upstairs to my parlor, and I’ll get everything ready. I shouldn’t need you to
do anything more than put out a few things: napkins,
hors d’oeuvres
. Everything’s
ready, but I need to make a few last minute touches. And I need to get the tea
brewing.”

What she said after that,
Ellen wasn’t sure. Serena spoke as she walked, and was halfway down the hall
leading off the back of the shop before Ellen could think to follow. She turned
the sign in the front window just as the shop went dark.

“Please hurry along,”
Serena said. “We haven’t much time.”

Ellen followed the sound
of her voice, catching a glimpse of Serena’s dress as she rounded a corner and
went upstairs, light spilling out from above.

And she found herself in
the foyer of a Victorian parlor every bit as comfortable and elegant as Serena
herself. A low table had been cleared of everything but a white linen cloth, a
loveseat along its length and two tall, wing-backed chairs on either end; a
cozy setting for an intimate tea with close friends.

“Who will be joining us?” Ellen asked, hoping the question
was not impolite.

Serena spooned raw
tealeaves into a small tisane while a large kettle of water heated upon the
stove behind her, blue flame licking the edges of the blackened copper. “Don’t
concern yourself over that. It will be you and me and a couple old friends. I
daresay you know them; they certainly know you. We have matters between us that
need to be settled.” Serena dangled the tisane down into the large silver
teapot and reached for a half-pint carton of whole cream, pouring the contents
into a small silver pitcher.

“Be a dear and put this
on the table with the sugar. After this morning, it’s all the cream I have
left.”

Serena slid the newly
filled pitcher towards Ellen then turned her attention to the trays of food: finger
sandwiches and crackers topped with watercress, anchovies, and white cheese
mixed with bacon. She set the tray on the countertop for Ellen and turned away
to assemble another tray of
biscotti
, cinnamon biscuits, ladyfingers,
and gingersnap cookies. “I don’t expect Arnold will be much for the fancier
hors
d’oeuvres
,” she remarked almost to herself. “The cookies should be fine for
him, though I expect he’s a dunker.” This notion made her pause a moment,
considering. Then she seemed to dismiss it with a wave of her hand. “Well,
there’s nothing to be done for it but put out extra napkins and hope for the
best.”

“Serena?” Ellen asked, “What
did you mean when you said your guests knew me?” It was as close as she dared
to asking outright.

The coffee shop owner
produced a silver tray, a complement to the articles Ellen assumed were all
part of an incredibly elaborate and expensive tea set—she was beginning to feel
underdressed for the affair—complete with intricately detailed china cups and
saucers, when a chime sounded, leaving Ellen’s question unanswered. “That would
be them now, right on time.”

The tall grandfather
clock in the parlor read exactly a quarter to two, the doorbell ringing just as
the hand clicked over to the nine, and not a second later.

“Ellen, would you greet
our guests for me?” Serena asked, turning her attentions to the tea.

Ellen nodded and opened
the door.

And there on the narrow
landing of Serena’s parlor stood Nicholas Dabble in a charcoal coat and
old-fashioned bow tie, resembling a turn-of-the-century southern preacher.

And standing beside him in
an awkward, powder-blue suit was the Garbageman!

The reaction was not altogether
unexpected.

“What the ‘ell is
she
doin’ ‘ere, Serena?” the Garbageman demanded.

“She is my guest, Arnold,
as are the both of you.” The coffee shop owner stepped into the parlor carrying
a tray of china and the tall silver teapot, steam spilling gently from the spout.
“There are things between us that we must settle. Now be polite and come
inside, won’t you?”

“What kind o’ game are
you up to?” the Garbageman wanted to know. “You know exactly what it is we’re
‘ere to
settle
. So what’s the idea of invitin’ the damn problem to sit
in with us? You plannin’ on offerin’ ‘er a cookie an’ a bloody cup o’ tea?”

Ellen was not exactly sure
how to feel about her presence being bantered around like nothing more than an
inconvenience by two comparative strangers, her life reduced to a jury duty
summons, tedious and unwanted, but unable to be ignored. The Garbageman
disliked her for no reason he felt inclined to share, believing she was a
matter that needed to be settled—a word not so far removed from
concluded
.

And there was that.
Amidst the flare of anger over her right to be here was a feeling of imminent
peril, as if she was in the presence of someone who could end her existence on
little more than a whim. And she had the suspicion that the Garbageman was not
the only one in the room who could.

She found her hand
holding tight to the doorknob long after she should have released it, her
knuckles white, knees weak. A part of her wanted to run—no thought given to
where or why, simply run; run because that was what you did when you saw
him
.

Jack warned her to stay
away from the Garbageman.

But how
could she when he was standing so close she could smell his breath—a thick reek
of garlic and carrion—as he blocked her only way out, his face angry and
contradicted: should he just let her go, taking whatever problem she caused him
with her, or choke the life out of her right there, consequences be damned.

Ever the good hostess,
Serena intervened. Setting the tray upon the table and advancing towards the
door, she placed a reassuring hand around Ellen’s shoulder. The Garbageman’s
confusion registered in his eyes, and Ellen felt the weight of his stare shift
to Serena. “Arnold, please. This behavior is inappropriate.”

The rebuke made the
Garbageman pale.

“As to who joins us, that
is entirely at my discretion. Now both of you please come in and make
yourselves comfortable. I will make introductions for those of us who do not
know one another—”

“We all know who we need
to know ‘ere, Serena, and you bloody know it,” Arnold said, hooking a finger
into his collar to loosen his tie.

“There is an order to
things,” she replied. “It is unwise to ignore such fundamental principals, especially
for the sake of mere convenience. If you disagree, then you should leave, and
Nicky and I can settle this business between ourselves without the benefit of
your counsel.”

Arnold Prosser looked
visibly wounded by Serena’s suggestion, his scowl lines deepening. He threw a
withering stare at Nicholas Dabble, but the bookshop owner appeared oblivious
to the exchange, strangely fascinated by some random swirl in the surface of
the paint on the hallway walls. “Alright, Serena,” the Garbageman acquiesced. 
“We’ll try it your way. But for the record, I don’t like it.”

Serena tipped her head
politely. “Your objection is noted.”

Nicholas Dabble seized
the moment to step by Arnold, tipping a nod to both Ellen and the hostess.
“Charmed as always, Serena. Are places already set?”

“I shall be by the clock.
Ellen will sit opposite me.” She gave Ellen a look, as if to make sure the
arrangement was satisfactory. Ellen simply nodded, unsure if it was really a
question at all, or merely a statement masquerading under the guise of
etiquette. “Beyond that,” Serena added, “you are free to sit wherever you
like.”

Like participants in a
game, members of some impromptu play, everyone moved to their respective seats.
But while Ellen would have sworn that Serena’s high-back chair was the twin of
hers, the hostess seemed completely at home in the deep, comforting arms of the
enormous throne, in perfect repose as she commanded the stage before her. Ellen
felt
engulfed
. If she sat back, her feet lost touch with the floor,
dancing on her toes like a child attending a party of grownups. She had to sit forward,
hoping her posture would be construed as polite attentiveness. Mr. Dabble sat to
her right on the adjacent loveseat, but looked ill at ease. When he thought no
one was watching, his expression slipped like a thin mask worn to conceal a face
fractured by pain. She guessed from the glimpses between the cracks that
Nicholas Dabble would rather be anywhere but here.

Arnold Prosser was the
last to take a seat, his hesitation leaving him with the mixed prospect of
sitting on the loveseat between Nicholas Dabble and Serena, the bookstore owner
like a watchful chaperone with Arnold the unlikely courtier of Serena’s
affections. The absurdity was intolerable. That he should share a seat with the
pompous, meddlesome, salt-licker for the duration of the tea was almost more
than he could stand. But the choice was already made, his position only worsening
with each passing moment, a steady erosion of his leverage as he stood in the
open doorway and looked on sourly. Soon he would be nothing more than a
vagabond on the doorstep: unlucky, unwelcome, and soon to be asked to leave.

Arnold
took his place on the loveseat,
flashing Nicholas Dabble a dark expression. At least the sofa was comfortable.
And he would have Serena’s ear. That counted for something, no question about
that. And he was in front of a plate of cookies left waiting on the low table.
A smile creased his features.
Yes, that did count for something
.

“The tea should only be a few more minutes,” Serena said. “For
everything, there is a time. Even for tea. Wouldn’t you agree, Arnold?”

“Yes,” he replied with
absolute seriousness. “A time for everything, and everything in its own time.”

“All the same, don’t let
me dissuade you from enjoying the
hors d’oeuvres
,” Serena persisted. “Please,
help yourself. I think you will find the gingersnaps quite delicious.”

Arnold Prosser was only
too eager to oblige, lifting the entire tray of cookies and biscuits up for
inspection. He chose one, popped it immediately into his mouth, and smiled
pleasantly. Mouth still full, he said, “Tasty.”

Serena nodded graciously.
“Thank you, Arnold.”

He palmed four more into
his fist then offered the tray to Serena. She politely thanked him and shook
her head no, so he passed them back to Nicholas Dabble without looking, the
contents of the tray nearly landing in the bookstore owner’s lap.

“I think formal
introductions are long overdue,” Serena announced.

The two men turned, the
suggestion startling them both.

“I would advise prudence upon
this path,” Nicholas cautioned, a flare to his gaze suggesting his remark
bordered upon a warning.

“He’s right,” Prosser
said, nodding emphatically. “You can’t just blurt that kind o’ thing out to
jes’ anybody. She may be more than she appears, and likely more ‘an she knows,
but some things ain’t for the likes o’ ‘er to know.”

Serena dismissed their
concerns with a wave, a gesture that might have been intended to quiet
talkative children. “Some of us here know one another. Some of us do not. And
it is unsuitable to have tea while any one of us is a stranger to the other. At
this time, it is appropriate that introductions be made. I will do what it is
time to do.”

Then she was looking at
Ellen, and the young woman found herself suddenly at the center of attention.
She tried to shrink herself down but was obstructed by the chair, which offered
only two alternatives: stay forward or be swallowed whole.

“Ellen, I am Serena, owner of
Serena’s Coffee Shoppe
over which we sit. And this is my home. To your immediate right is Nicholas
Dabble, owner of
Dabble’s Books
. I’m sure you think you know him very
well.”

Mr. Dabble nodded
politely, his controlled expression cracking only the barest fraction at Serena’s
barb. Ellen knew her boss had secrets; the only seeming purpose behind Serena’s
remark was to let her know that Serena knew more about her boss’s secrets than
she did.

“And the gentleman to my
immediate left is Arnold Prosser. He is the Garbageman. While I imagine that
the two of you have had some near collisions, I don’t expect that either of you
have met previously. I would be aware of that, I’m certain.”

Arnold Prosser gave her a
look neither pleased nor angry, but might best be called relief with a hint of
annoyance.

“I expect we would all be
aware of such a meeting,” Dabble interjected.

“A lot o’ this is your
fault, dabbler, so no pissing about me doing what I’m supposed to do. You were
the one what caused this by hidin’ her, knowing what she was and what she can
do. You were pokin’ yer nose where it don’t belong, and now you’re sour ‘cause
I caught you by it. And I’ll be damned if I’ll let you go just for running to
Serena. This here is my problem.”

“It is not a
problem
,
and it most certainly is not yours,” Nicholas shot back.

“Gentlemen, please,”
Serena said. “In the first place, I
know
about Ellen Monroe: who she is,
what she is, and why she is here. In that respect, I daresay I know more than
she does. Secondly, while her presence here does represent a problem, it does
not represent
your
problem so much as
our
problem. You are simply
seeing one side, and assuming the rest is alike for that view. It is not.
Further, your solution would be catastrophic on a myriad of levels, and cannot
be allowed.”

The Garbageman disagreed.

“Cannot be allowed! Have
you gone soft in the head?” Prosser shouted. “She” and he angrily hooked a
finger at Ellen, “does not belong here. Not
here
. You understand that?
She was never meant to be
here
. But somehow there she is. You’re messin’
with the very core of the universe with her. There’s a balance, and she’s
upsettin’ it. She ain’t supposed to be here—there’s no possible way she
could
be here—and yet somehow … she is! She’s a paradox, and paradoxes have a nasty
tendency of unbindin’ the fabric o’ the universe, tearin’ apart the order o’
things. I can’t allow that. You put a piece in a machine what don’t belong, you
break the machine.” He emphasized his point by jabbing the air with his finger.

“But if you try to remove
the piece with a hammer, the machine will be just as broken,” Serena remarked
mildly.

“And what would you
suggest?” Arnold demanded.

In her same mild,
nonplussed tone, Serena said, “Convince the wayward piece to leave of its own
accord.”

“And how’s this piece gonna
take
itself
out of the machine?”

“You obtuse imbecile,”
Nicholas Dabble snarled, clearly staking out the boundaries of his territory.
“In the first place, we’re speaking metaphorically about an agent of free will,
not a three-eighth-inch gear. And in the second place, there wouldn’t be any of
your precious order in the universe without the element of chaos by which it
can be defined. You might as well wish for a head with no tail. They cannot be
separated.
That
is the true nature of the universe. If you can’t see
that then there is no point to our meeting at all.”

Arnold Prosser turned sharply on Nicholas Dabble, jaw
clenched, already starting to rise from his seat. “You wanna take this outside
and finish what we started the other day, you say the word, salt-licker. But
don’t you start pissing about order and chaos and the nature of the universe
‘cause I won’t hear it from you. You knew full goddamn well what this little
strip was when you found her, yet you kept her anyway.”

Ellen opened her mouth to object, but Arnold Prosser’s tirade
was not about to be deterred.

“You hid her out: from me, from Serena, from everyone.
Thought she was some kind of pretty trinket you could stash in the false bottom
of a drawer, or an old shoebox in the closet. You thought I wouldn’t find ‘er,
wouldn’t know what you’d done. But I surprised you, didn’t I? You thought you
was safe behind your little lies and half-truths, answers that aren’t answers?
Well I saw through your fuckin’ games right quick, didn’t I? Didn’t I?”

“I had every right to do
as I did, and you know it,” Dabble challenged back, his tone dropping to a
warning snarl.

Prosser’s eyes darkened.
“I musta scrambled your fuckin’ brains yesterday, dabbler. Did you actually say
that she was within your right? That little strip of a mortal right there? You
know my jurisdiction, and I damn well know yours. And she’s clearly mine.”

“And how did you arrive
at that erroneous conclusion?”