Jonah Page 6

  “You didn't even whimper. You never complained. You just went down to that gypsy room, and wrote stories about people who do not live on this planet.

  “You know what your problem is, Zion? You don't believe evil exists. And that makes you a very boring person.”

  He exploded out of the chair. He grabbed Zion and slammed her against the refrigerator. He shook her like a rag doll.

  “EVIL IS REAL!” he shouted. “I AM EVIL!”

  Zion sensed she needed to scream then, needed to fight him. She screamed. She kicked at him. She saw his pupils dilate with surprise and arousal. This is what he'd meant when he'd said life was just beginning to get interesting. He had a sadistic streak in him, she saw it then.

  She jerked free, and ran out of the house. Her car was parked on the circle driveway out front. If he chased her, she would be defenseless. Drake was big and strong. But Zion had something he did not. She didn't even know what to call it—some kind of power that when she did call it, always came to her aid. She climbed into her car, and locked all four doors. Before she drove away, she saw his face at the window, gaze fixed on the connection between car and U-Haul. Unsightly, a woman pulling a trailer. It will tear loose and plunge down a cliff. A woman who needed help connecting water hoses. Crash. Be damned. Be gone.

  The sky was white fire as Zion made for the interstate. Something whispered that it would be suicidal to enter the freeway before acknowledging that anything out of the ordinary had happened in her kitchen….

  We drove to a secluded spot near Lake Minnequa. We all cried—Alcyone, Sister Glorianne, Shadow Girl, and the Writer—the kind of wailing despair that can shake a soul from its moorings. If someone had found me babbling to my counterparts, as if they were separate entities, I would have been wrapped and packed, and rightly so.

  But no one came, and my counterparts had their say, all four. They had their say, and then I killed them.

  Do not ask me how I did this.

  For an eon of moments, I sat—a shell, neither sad nor happy. Then into the silence came a sound…a low, soft humming that, as it drew closer, began to sound like a wind of words, spoken by many soft voices. The whole car vibrated.

  I cannot tell you all I heard. I do not remember all. For a few golden moments, the mist lifted, and I experienced something like divine clarity. I remembered my past, Coral Kay, I swear I did! And I remembered why I came here.…

  But the shadows came again, like a mist over my mind. And then something appeared in the air, just above the hood of the car. It was distinctly a red rose…very clear. The flower faded and then a pinkish glow enveloped the car. I felt imbued with power.

  There was something I needed to do before I left Colorado. It was wrong to allow Drake to think he had the power to excise me out of his life so easily.

  Driving back, I knew he would not be there. I parked at the curb facing the house. A UPS truck was two houses away. I waited for the driver to complete her deliveries on Casa Grande Circle before getting out of the car.

  I stood on the lawn, facing the house. I was going to miss the trees…blue spruce, birch, aspen, oak, maple….

  Coral Kay, I could have destroyed that house. I could have sparked a fire that would have burned it to the ground. I did feel a spark of desire for revenge. But conflagration would strengthen Drake's belief in evil. A secret was revealed to me. Evil is the darkness that fills the vacuum in the minds of men or women who have forgotten, or never knew, love. Show me evil in nature, in stones, water, winds, trees, fire. Show me evil in mammals, reptiles, fish, fowl, and smaller creatures. God made everything and declared it all good.

  The rosy light was no longer visible, but I felt its energy around me. I had to decide what to do quickly. I saw it first in my mind. I raised both of my palms. I made an arc like a rainbow over the house, and held up my palms to all of the trees, one at a time. Then I waited. In a manner of seconds, crows began to fill the air. Some were flying in from around the neighborhood; others were literally popping out of the air. Hundreds of crows came. They filled all of the trees and bushes, lined up on the telephone and power lines, and covered the roofs of the house and the garage. The sound was an audience packed into a stadium for a Bruce Springsteen concert. The sound was a thousand teenagers screaming, clapping, stamping feet, demanding to be entertained. I knew the crows would not leave until the star performer came home. That was the promise in the pink light. This was for Drake. My special good-bye.

  Thelma Hollingsworth came out on her driveway and stared at me, stared at the crows. Her hand was over her mouth, and her eyes were shining. I waved at Mrs. Hollingsworth. “You won't be seeing me anymore, Mrs. Hollingsworth!” I shouted. But she couldn't hear me for the crows.

  I got in my car and drove away.

  Just me. Zion Rose.

  Part II

  JONAH

  Nature is capricious and unpredictable. One day, a gentle breeze, the next, a hurricane. No man can plot the exact moment a volcano will erupt, and earthquakes evade the most sensitive seismic instruments. But there are certainties in life, and one is, a lion is the greatest lover on Earth. Ask Jonah.

  Chapter H (8)

  Saturday morning, Jonah is wide-awake at half-past six. Little Ben is probably telling the truth today, but Jonah is suspicious that the hands regularly skip increments in tens and twenties of minutes, tightening the belts of time. This is happening to every clock and watch in Jo's Abode, he decides. It's happening to every timepiece in Apple Valley—from digital clocks on coffeepots to old grandfather clocks made in 1892. It's happening all over the globe. It's a government conspiracy. People think the government is hiding UFOs out at Area 51 in Nevada. But that's not the big secret. They're jacking with time out there. They built a humongous pyramid—possibly out of scrap metal with magical properties from a UFO that crashed in New Mexico in ‘47. The aliens escaped. They touched their little noses and skyed up to the Mother Ship. On each face of the pyramid is a huge clock, one for each corner of the world. Each is calibrated precisely to the same nanosecond, all four working in sync as one master clock. The scientists who control the quadriclock are clones created from Albert Einstein's cells. The clones have his genius but not his soul. None of them play the violin. Project Time Squeeze was designed by a secret cartel of financiers who control the world. All are direct descendants of Egyptian pharaohs. The purpose of the project is to squeeze the little man's billfold because…didn't they teach us? Time is money.

  These are the musings of Jonah QuillerMahoney minutes before Thunderpaws leaps on the bed and cusses him out for failing to give him wet food the night before, and Coral Kay whines about not having any Honey Bunches.

  Would Zion come before ten on a Saturday morning? If he's gone to the store, will she walk in and make herself comfortable, like people in the Valley do, or will she get in her car and keep traveling? Return to Colorado? Will he come home and find her on the doorstep crying?

  Say, he goes to the store, shops in his usual leisurely manner. The Master Clockers shortened the time during the night, so today, the hours will seem deceptively long and roomy. She arrives around noon. He looks good, Coral looks good, and the house looks okay. She will forgive him for the yard; she used to live here, knows how people are in the Valley. She might even feel a little sorry for him, a single man, raising a child alone.

  But, she just wants to be alone right now. She's been through hell—no need to elaborate the details—her eye tells the story. Would he mind moving out to the studio? She realizes this will be an adjustment, but she can tell Jonah is very adaptable. Feel free to use the washer and dryer in the basement, and you can store your overflow down there. The basement stairs are just inside the back door—we can rig up something so that he and Coral can come and go at will, allowing her the privacy she needs.

  And thank you, Mr. Mahoney, for agreeing to clean up the yard soon. And would you mind fixing my car? I meant to buy a new one before Mr. Cromwell threw me out, but he had me on an al
lowance of twenty dollars a week, and I spent it all on pencils to write the books I burned up. Isn't life funny? All my books are ashes now, but I still have the pencils!

  Oh, and by the way, Mr. Mahoney. I have a boyfriend. Bubba will be here in two weeks. He's in the hospital, recovering from a gunshot wound in the scrotum.

  Jonah is at the wheel of his Dodge Ram pickup, heading north on Main toward Clyde's Market. Beside him, Coral Kay is singing and combing Barbie's hair. He persuaded her to wear a dress today, and she let him brush her honey-colored locks. It took gentle urging from a father who had to be taught that panties with the days of the week embroidered on them are stupid. Jonah thought it made sense. If they made Jockey shorts that way, he'd know which day to wear which shorts. “Shorts are just shorts,” he told Coral, seeing ten dollars float away on a breeze. Today, under her dress with the bears marching across her chest, her underthings are ruffled, stuff a man knows must scratch the hell out of tender places.

  His elbow is out the window, cranked down to enjoy the crisp November air. Lots of action in Apple Valley today. Usual crowd down at the Silver Grill, cops' favorite hangout. Passing Curly Lopez, Jonah lifts a finger and smiles. A dozen people packed inside Curly's new Towncar, Curly straight-lipped above his bow tie.

  The tourist season is almost over; most businesses are closed for the winter. Come December, traffic will be so scarce on a weekend, a man can lie down on the center stripe on Main Street, grab a snooze, and wake up with no more than one set of dusty bicycle tracks down an arm and a leg. From December to March, the tourists go elsewhere, and half the work force heads for South America to party. The Valley is close enough to the Colorado River to justify a dozen river-rafting companies, and the slick rock mountains, towers, arches, and bridges are a draw for Jeepers, bicyclers, hikers, climbers, environmentalists, artists, and film and television producers from all over the globe.

  Rocks shaped like everything imaginable surround the Valley. Every rock larger than a St. Bernard gets a name, sometimes following vicious disputes among the natives. For example, Shooter's Rock out near Polly's Folly clearly resembles a one-eared rabbit, but was misnamed Shooter's after Absent Smith shot Bill Crumbley in the butt, nearly killing the old crook.

  Jonah passes the Coffee Talk. Hilde's Music Emporium is open, and Frame will probably open the Whistler for a while this afternoon.

  He bets Jo never dreamed her store would undergo such a metamorphosis. Turned into the second talkiest place in town, second to the Silver Grill. Whoever said talk is cheap knew nothing about small-town economics. If not for the talk, he wouldn't sell enough goods to make a living, even with Lulu Greystone's miniature Howdy Boy rock art. The talk and the atmosphere, the variety of coffees, the old chair you can drop into and swing up your legs. Lulu's rock art sells, the mugs sell, and so do the Native American dream catchers, but the thing that keeps the customers coming in is the talk around the coffeepot, and the Xerox machine—cheapest copies in town.

  The Talk will not open today. In fact, the Talk may close up for the season, early this year.

  Jonah parks the Ram next to Jake Calvert's dust-caked Rover in front of Clyde's Market. Jake is pushing a cart toward the Rover. The two men pause to chat.

  “Daddy!” Coral Kay yanks on his pants leg. “We have to hurry. Zion is coming over!”

  “Mrs. Cromwell,” Jonah corrects her.

  “Mrs. Rose,” Coral Kay corrects him.

  Jonah stares at her.

  “Jo's niece is in town,” he informs Jake. “Coral was up washing walls, gathering eggs, milking the cow, and baking a cake at four o'clock this morning. She's a little anxious. Wants everything to be perfect. Zion is the landlady.”

  Jake is fiddling with his beard; his blue eyes twinkle. “Yeah, I heard.”

  “You heard Zion was in town?”

  “Last night. Audrey said something about it.”

  Which means the whole town knows.

  Thunderpaws finishes off the Fancy Feast Jonah bought to appease him, the groceries are put away, and a fresh pot of coffee is brewing when the telephone rings at ten minutes after one.

  Zion. Calling to say she changed her mind. She won't be coming to Jo's Abode, not until after Jonah and Coral have vacated the premises. And please remove that tacky shed.

  Jonah picks up the receiver. It's Frame. He lets out a deep breath.

  “What the hell's going on over there, J.Q.?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  Jonah pours a cup of coffee. He slouches in a chair at the kitchen table. Drums his fingers on the plastic tablecloth.

  “Whole damn town. Laurie got a call from Audrey Alice who heard it from her girl Trinity who said she heard it from Gabe Harris down at the hardware store. Gabe said his sister, the one with a hundred kids, heard it from one of her brood, who most likely heard it from a broodee in the Bruhansen clan. Best I can tell, it started when the woman checked into the Red Flame—giving your address as her own. Confidentiality at the Flame is as rare as fresh coffee, you should have warned her, Mahoney. Rumor has it she has a shiner. You smack her already?”

  “She said something bitchy about my shed, Frame.”

  “Oh, then.”

  “You have room for it in your backyard? I have a feeling Coral and I are going to be living in it tomorrow. I doubt Mrs. Cromwell is going to allow us to stay on the property, after I blacked her eye.”

  “Zion Vanderbond…found like John the Baptist out on the desert, locust and honey dripping off her chin. Same age as my brother, Dick, thirty-six.”

  “No!”

  “Unless she dropped or added some years since she left the Valley.”

  “Doesn't look a day over thirty-five.”

  “Well she didn't get the youth and beauty gene from the Vanderbonds.”

  “Really?”

  Jonah settles his feet up on a chair. Frame is gearing up to reveal the history of Zion, as pertains to the Vanderbonds. The man is like one of those aboriginal shaman who knows by heart the entire history of his own clan, which, in Frame's case, means a half-dozen interrelated clans, his great-great-grandfather Mac Gregor on his mother's side having been a Mormon polygamist who had five wives. Each of them gave birth to five or ten, some of them marrying plural. Frame was smart. Married a gal from Indiana. Cut the odds of inbreeding.

  People who know Francis Aloysius Swenson know to listen to his histories with one ear. It's not that Frame out and out lies; he's just a born storyteller, and can't help but embellish.

  According to Frame, Zion was raised in a polygamist cult hidden deep in the desert. Never set foot outside the camp before she came to Apple Valley. That's why the Vanderbonds had to teach her everything, as if she were four years old, not eleven. Or at least everyone decided she was eleven.

  Certain things stand out in Frame's memory. Zion couldn't get over the fact that all of the houses in the Valley were either squares or rectangles. That cult must have lived in sod igloos. And why, the girl wanted to know, do we live indoors in the spring, summer, and autumn?

  “I often wonder that myself,” Jonah says. “And I'm completely sane.”

  “Uh-huh. Jo told you about that part, too.”

  “Said they wondered if she escaped from a loony bin, because she said, ‘Take me to your dome!’”

  “That and quite a lot of incoherent babble, Jonah. But turns out she's pretty smart. She picked up on how she was being perceived, and went on a talk strike. Try to imagine, Jonah…no talk for months. Been you, they would have had to bring a straitjacket.”

  It takes a while before the men stop outquipping each other and Frame gets down to some facts that might help Jonah live up to his commitment. This could be a delicate situation. Already Jonah senses that for all her purported limitations, Zion is no helpless waif who will fall into his arms, cooing thanks for his nobility in honoring Jo's intentions. This is a serious matter. No telling the cleverness he might have to put to work to help a woman who doesn't know she needs he
lp. And what if she does kick him out?

  Zion flunked high school, Frame says. Not because she was dumb. She was a chronic ditcher. And where did she go when she ditched classes? The library.

  “That's a fact. My cousin Nell was working there part time. She said Zion told her school was too slow, too boring.”

  And what did she study at the library? History. Read practically every book in the library on world history in particular.

  Frame knows more. Zion ran off with some bicycle bozo about the time her classmates were graduating. Jo flipped out, followed her up to Boulder, Colorado. Sure enough, the bozo dumped Zion, probably as soon as he discovered there was one strange lady behind that pretty face. According to Jo, Zion balked at returning to the Valley. She was ready to seek her destiny in the big, wide world. Jo came home long-faced, saying she helped Zion get a job at the University of Colorado as a file clerk or something. Jo was back and forth to Boulder, mother-henning her. Certain people figured she was in love with Zion—”

  “Bullshit,” Jonah interrupts. “Jo never preyed on women; in fact, her love-life was practically nil—”

  “I know, I know. Zion was the daughter Jo was never going to have. As I was saying, no one expected Zion to make it up in Boulder. She has certain peculiarities.”

  “Such as?” Jonah wants to know.

  “Besides hanging out in libraries and refusing to let anyone cut her hair? Her hair grew down to her pretty little ass before Jo convinced her it was okay to cut it. Jo said Zion was afraid if she cut her hair, she would lose her water. I shouldn't be telling you this stuff. She's really okay. Just some idiosyncrasies held over from her cult upbringing.”

  After Zion married Cromwell, Jo backed off. It was triple-hundred-dollar phone bills for a while, but that tapered off when Jo realized she had to let the woman live her own life—crash, burn, or fly.

  “Now, go easy on her, Frame, talking up her black eye. I'm sure her husband beat her up, no fault of her own. She's one of those women in need of shelter.”