War for the Oaks (6 page)

Eddi put her hands over her face and moaned.

The phone rang then. Before Eddi could do more than uncover her eyes, the phouka bounded out of his chair and snatched up the receiver.

"Don't!" Eddi cried, too late.

"McCandry residence," he said pleasantly. "May I help you?" By this time Eddi was trying to pull the receiver away from his ear. It didn't budge. "A very good friend of Miss McCandry's," he continued. "Who wants to know? . . . Ah."

"Dammit, give me the phone!" Eddi said through clenched teeth, but the phouka only planted his free hand on her chest and held her at arm's length. Eddi could hear an agitated voice from the earpiece.

"Splendid!" said the phouka brightly. "Eddi has told me about you. We'll be waiting." And he hung up the phone.

"You—you—you
son of a bitch!"

"Bow-wow," he said, smiling.

"Who was that?"

"Who was what?"

"On the phone!"

"Oh, that. That was your boyfriend."

"That . . . was Stuart?" Her stomach gave a nervous clench.

"B'lieve that's his name. The ornamental fellow with no talent?"

Eddi reviewed the phouka's half of the phone call. "Shit. Oh, boy."

"Come now, sweet. Do you really want to spend your time pandering to that spoiled boy's vanity?" He cleared the table briskly, and called back from the kitchen, "Now, thanks to me, you can dismiss him from your life. Poof. Simplest thing in the world."

Eddi felt rooted to the floor, rage and confusion fighting for control of her. "Simple? What's simple about it? He's going to think I've been sleeping with you!" She'd planned to break off with Stuart, yes, but sadly, quietly, trying not to hurt him. Not like this. . . .

The phouka stuck his head around the doorway into the living room, his large tilted-up eyes wide. "Oh, my primrose, are you so innocent? Lads like that can only be replaced. Anything else is too subtle for them. If you told the boy that your love had faded, he'd think you were only being difficult. He won't go away until you show him a rival and tell him he's been supplanted."

"This is none of your business."

He rolled his eyes and disappeared back into her corridor of a kitchen. "I should let you try it your way and prove it to you," he called back. "But it would take too much time. This way he'll be out from underfoot, and you'll be the better for it."

"I hope I get the chance to do
you
a favor someday," Eddi said at last, when she could trust herself to speak without screaming.

"I feel obliged to point out, sweet, that greeting the boy in your dressing gown will not, in this case, improve his temper."

"Get stuffed!" Eddi growled, and stomped back to the bedroom.

Sometimes, she reflected, she dressed for courage, sometimes for success, and sometimes for the consolation of knowing that whatever else went wrong, at least she liked her clothes. This promised to be one of the latter times. She dug through her closet for the long pink
pleated skirt she'd found at Tatters. She added her favorite lace blouse and a man's gray suit vest, pink socks and white sneakers. "Better," she said to the mirror over the chest of drawers, and bounced a little to get the feel of the sneakers.

If she could get the damn phouka to go away and let her handle Stuart . . . But perhaps it was true; this was a sharp, short pain, a little misunderstanding to prevent a larger one. Stuart's hurt pride—and there was so much of it to hurt—would drive him away.

She felt the ache in the back of her throat that was the first warning of tears. She wasn't in love with Stuart, not anymore, not really. They'd been together a year, and what was love had turned, unnoticed, into habit. But she could remember being in love with him. They had shared words and phrases that made them laugh because of how or where they'd heard them. He'd sent her dumb cards, for no reason . . . no. Better not to remember. She found herself sitting on the end of the bed, and wasn't sure how long she'd been there. Stuart would arrive soon; she ought to be collecting her wits, not scattering them. And she ought to be doing something about the phouka—

Her door buzzer bleated from the living room, twice, three times. Eddi dashed out of the bedroom and pressed the button that unlocked the front door. The phouka was slouched in her only upholstered chair, looking pained.

"Hideous noise," he said.

"Then why didn't you get it?"

"Get what?"

"The door!"

"Was that what it was?" he said with an air of academic interest. "I wonder that anyone could welcome company, if it's always announced so."

"It's not welcome this time," Eddi muttered, but the phouka ignored her. His feet were propped on the trunk that served as her coffee table, and he seemed to be engrossed in a copy of
The Face
. He looked entirely at home. Eddi suspected that he was setting a tableau for Stuart's benefit, but there was nothing she could do about it now. She heard Stuart running up the stairs.

She opened the door before he could knock. Stuart was breathing a little hard from the climb, and one lock of brown hair, longer than the rest, had fallen forward over his forehead. He looked pale, his eyes wide and unguarded. Eddi felt the ache again in her throat.
Damn you
,
Stuart
, she wailed inside,
please be angry
. But it was too late. He would be angry, he would say cruel things, but she would remember his cutadrift look and be unable to hate him.

"Come in," she said finally, and then, as if that had unstoppered her voice, "I was going to call you, this morning, but you beat me to it. I wanted to—I'd like to talk, Stuart, about . . . the band . . . and . . . oh, shit."

As she ran down, his gaze went past her and hardened. She sighed and turned.

The phouka was unfolding himself gracefully, propping his elbows on the chair back and his chin in his palms. "Stuart Kline, yes?" he said with a drowsy smile. "Please to meet you."

"Get out of here," Stuart said tightly. "This is private."

"On the contrary," said the phouka, "I believe it concerns me . . . intimately."

"Get the fuck out."

"You're being impolite, my little fighting cock. Why should I leave?
You're
the visitor."

Stuart went paler still. "Is that true?" he said to Eddi. "Has he moved in already?"

"No!" Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw the phouka cock his head. "Oh hell—yes, but not like that!"

Stuart's jaw went a little crooked, and Eddi knew he was grinding his teeth. "Like what, then?" he said, looking at the phouka.

"I'm not sleeping with him." She had a wild urge to tell him, "He followed me home."

"Well, you'll just have to get your sleep someplace else, won't you? How goddamn stupid do you think I am?" His voice rose in volume and pitch, and he took a step toward her. "What, you want to pass this son of a bitch off as an old friend? Then why the fuck didn't you introduce him last night?"

"Last night?" the phouka's voice broke in, all its laziness gone.

"You shut up!" Stuart screamed at him, and turned on Eddi again. "You think I didn't see him last night at the club? The two of you watching each other?"

"That," said the phouka softly, "is precisely what I'd thought."

"Well, think again. Are you from Jamaica, or what? You talk like a fucking faggot."

"For God's sake, Stuart!" Eddi grabbed at his arm, frightened by the phouka's stiffness, Stuart's overflowing rage.

"What do you say, Eddi?" Stuart asked sweetly, still watching the phouka. "Is he a faggot? Is that why you're not fucking him? I mean, you would otherwise, wouldn't you? As long as he could get it up."

She let go of his arm. "Anything would be better than the way we've been the last few months," she said through clenched teeth.

She watched the swing of Stuart's arm, the fist sweeping toward her face, and thought,
All those fights, and he never hit me
. . . . She was too surprised to feel the blow at first, but it knocked her down. As she fell, she saw the phouka move from his chair to Stuart. Then Stuart was face down on the floor, one arm pinned behind him and the phouka's knee in his back. Stuart's face was white and pinched with pain.

"Don't. Do that. Again." The phouka's voice was soft, but with each word he tugged gently on Stuart's pinned arm. Stuart's breath hissed between his teeth.

"Let him up," Eddi croaked.

The phouka looked at her with another of his unfathomable expressions. He released Stuart and stood.

Stuart rose slowly. He straightened his coat and dragged his fingers through his hair; then he took several shaky steps to the door. He paused in the doorway, as if he would turn and say one last thing. But he raised his head and disappeared down the hallway.

Eddi struggled to her feet and lurched for the door. The phouka moved to follow her.

She turned on him. "You!
Stay!"

As she ran down the hall, she wondered which of them was more surprised at his obedience.

She caught up with Stuart on the second-floor landing. "Stu, wait!"

He didn't turn. When she came up beside him, she saw the stopping-up of his emotions in his face.

"I'm sorry, Stu. That . . . that wasn't what I wanted."

"You didn't want to break it off?" There was no flicker of hope in his eyes or voice. She winced away from his stillness as she hadn't from his upraised hand.

"I didn't want to do it like that."

He shrugged and looked away. "Too late now."

"Yeah." She exhaled, gulped air. "I . . . the band . . ."

"Yeah, I know. Carla, too, I suppose?"

She was startled, and only nodded.

He rubbed a hand over his face, and Eddi thought some of what he was holding in might escape. But the hand dropped, and his face was closed and hard. "Right. I gotta go."

"Good-bye, Stu."

He shrugged again, and went on down the stairs.

When she got back to her apartment, she found the phouka in the doorway. He opened his mouth.

"I don't want to hear it," she said. She saw his eyes kindle with anger, before he turned sharply away. She stayed leaning against the doorjamb, too weary to move.

"I was going to say, 'I'm sorry,' " the phouka said at last.

Eddi stared at him.

"I hadn't thought he would strike you." Then he gave a bitter little bark of a laugh. "There are many things I hadn't thought he'd do. Earth and sky guard me from the consequences of my error."

Eddi sank down on the couch. She was trembling. The phouka had gone to stand at the window. It seemed a long time before he spoke again.

"I missed what I should have seen, and my only excuse is that he stood in your shadow."

"What?" said Eddi.

The phouka turned, but backlighted as he was, Eddi saw only his silhouette. "When I heard you, I was drawn, forgive the coarse and common simile, like a moth to flame, and when I saw you, you glowed like the moon's own face and blinded me. I should have seen that Stuart, too, had a certain . . . luminosity. But I did not, and that folly may prove costly. For what it's worth, you have my apology."

"I don't understand anything you're saying."

The phouka turned back to the window.

The phone rang then, and Eddi picked it up warily. "Hello?"

"Hullo, kid. It's Carla."

"Carla," Eddi said; then her throat constricted and she couldn't speak.

"Eddi? You okay?"

She took a deep breath. "Carla, can you come over?"

"Shit, yes. I'm at the Seven-Eleven around the corner. Be there in three." And Eddi heard her hang up.

For three minutes there was silence in the apartment. When the door buzzer went off, the phouka stalked over and pressed the button.

It wasn't until Carla appeared in the doorway that Eddi realized she hadn't shut the door after Stuart. Carla stopped and looked from Eddi, still sitting on the couch, to the phouka, who was standing by the bedroom door.

"Well," said Carla. "Hi."

"Come on in," Eddi said.

"I'm already in. You've seen Stuart, I take it."

Eddi nodded.

"I also take it from your semicatatonic state that it was grisly."

Eddi wanted to burst into tears and fling herself upon Carla's bosom. "Yes," she said instead.

"Uh-huh. So. Who's this?" Carla pointed her chin at the phouka. "Friend of yours? Or are things even stranger here than they feel?"

Eddi licked her lips. "You won't like it."

"You're getting a bruise on the side of your face. If he has anything to do with that"—Carla jerked her head toward the phouka—"you damn betcha I won't like it."

"Not exactly. I mean, that wasn't his fault. Carla . . ." There was no way to ease gently into the subject "Carla, he's a phouka."

Carla stared at her, then looked at the phouka. "A—phouka?"

"You know what it is?" Eddi asked.

Carla looked at her dubiously. "The last time I heard that word, Jimmy Stewart was using it to describe a six-foot white rabbit." And she looked back at the phouka.

"Let me tell you what's happened since I left you last night," Eddi said. She saw the phouka scowl and open his mouth to interrupt, but she didn't let him. She told Carla the whole story.

When she'd finished, Carla shook a cigarette out of her pack and lit it. "Dear," she said, frowning, as the smoke rolled out of her mouth, "I love you like my own sister. Which is why I won't hesitate to tell you that I don't believe it."

"How much of it don't you believe?" Eddi asked.

"What do you mean, how much of it? The unbelievable parts. Starting with your gentleman caller here turning into a dog. On the other hand, I doubt that breaking up with Stuart has left you a few stairs short of the landing."

Eddi looked at the phouka. "I don't suppose you'd prove it to her."

He scowled and stepped away from the wall. "It would serve you right if I shook my head sadly and said that you'd been like this since I found you in the street this morning. Watch closely, I won't do it again."

And he changed. Eddi realized as he did it that she'd never seen the process, and she felt suddenly embarrassed, as if she'd asked to watch him undress. The transformation from man to dog wasn't instantaneous, nor was it a slow metamorphosis of man's arm into dog's leg, man's face lengthening into dog's muzzle. There was a sparkling whirl of air around him that seemed to dissolve him, and with it a fleeting fragrance of warm earth and fresh water. The dog-form coalesced, and the confusion of air seemed to be absorbed back into it, until all that stood before them was an enormous black dog.