Table of Contents
For Christeen and Joseph Buehlman,
who gave me a home to dream in
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I wish first to remember Elaine Koster, a formidable and unforgettable woman who was my literary agent all too briefly. Elaines assistant, Stephanie Lehmann, has my thanks for wading into the manuscript armed with an indifference for the horror genre and a keen eye for bullshit; she beat this novel until it had to die or get strong. Undying thanks also go to Ellen Twaddell, associate agent at the Elaine Koster Literary Agency, for fishing me out of the slush pile. Jenny Steiner Meisinger was with me through the first glimmer and the first draft, and Jennifer Rae Johnson (now Buehlman) saw it born in its current form. Danielle Dupont, an actual muse, never had any doubt; and those who know Karen already know where Dora got her eyes. I want to thank the readers who took the time to comment thoughtfully on this piece in its various forms: Ciara Carinci, Franc Auld, Michael J. E. Reilly, Chris Holcom and especially my sometime writing partner Allison Williams. Thanks to Alan Hutton and Kevin Daniels for their weapons expertise, and to Mouse, who helped me more credibly imagine what I have been lucky enough (thanks to men like him) never to have seen firsthand. Thanks to Brenda White Caballero for giving me, as the Spanish say, light. And thanks to Jack Bostick, a teacher who told his students scary stories.
HE CAME OUT to see me in the cage because I belonged to him.
I was like a new racehorse he still found interesting enough to visit at night, when the others were asleep. He sat there cross-legged on the wet ground, unmindful of the light rain that was falling on him. It wasnt enough to extinguish his cigar, but it was enough to keep my ruined back waterlogged; enough to make me think my bones were made of cold pewter.
I had drifted in and out. He might have been there an hour before I noticed him.
Yo ure going to die out here, he said.
He didnt say it to frighten me.
He just said it.
Yes, I said.
It occurred to me for the first time that they might eat me. Then I shook that thought away; if they meant to eat me, they wouldnt have let my flesh get this rotten. They wouldnt have left me with so little food. I wasnt good enough for them to eat.
Im not good enough for you to eat, I muttered into the rain, too tired to choose between thinking and speaking. You or I wouldnt have heard it. But their ears were very good.
Maybe just your heart, he said, without irony or double meaning. It wasnt like speaking with a person. He was just a shadow against other shadows.
Okay, I said.
Having my heart eaten sounded good and final. I wanted to lie down with the dead. I wanted to be numb and blind and without memory. But thats not what happened.
I kept my memory.
Especially the parts I didnt want.
CHAPTER ONE
THIS IS HOW it started.
Eudora and I pulled up the drive with the sound of gravel under the tires. When the house came into view she squealed.
Is it ours, Frankie? Is it really all ours?
Thats what the paperwork says.
Its such a fine yellow. I think Ill call it the Canary House. Will you call it that with me, or will you feel silly?
The Canary House suits me fine.
She grinned and gave me a flash of her mismatched eyes; one lake-grey, one shallows-green. The most bewitching eyes I ever saw, or will ever see.
Lets just sit here and look at it for a moment. Well have some gay times in that house, but we dont know what they are yet, so lets just hold on to that. The potential, I mean.
Alright.
Or, better yet, lets imagine all the things we want in that house. Can you imagine making love to me on the staircase? Within the hour?
Easily.
Will you carry me across the threshold?
Lets save it for the wedding. And only if nobodys looking. Were already married, remember? At least as far as our neighbors are concerned.
Neighbors. How soon will our neighbors be our friends, I wonder. Can you see us having friends over for dinner?
Yes.
What about as old marrieds sitting on the porch? Holding hands with our closer hands and swatting flies with the free ones. Can you see that?
Not at all. I laughed.
Well, perhaps I dont care to swat flies with you, either.
And then she kissed me so hungrily that we never made it to the staircase.
THE MOVERS CAME not at the hottest part of the day, but about an hour after that, when the heat had built up so that it stood under the eaves and porches and made the moisture in the ground steam underfoot. The truck, beaten-up and rusty, with a dent in the front fender, pulled up just behind my own car. The moving trucks paint had once been white. That was why the blood stood out. Just a little of it, no more than a paintbrush would flick, but fresh.
That dent hadnt been there in Chicago.
The driver, an affable Negro with a broad frame and a wide, handsome face, saw what I was looking at as he cut the motor. Black smoke farted behind the truck. He stepped down from the cab. His smaller partner got down, too. Stuck close to him.
We done hit a dog. He come quick from under a house. Crawled back under the house slow.
Was the drive okay otherwise?
Oh, I done worse, yes I have. But the roads around here pretty rough.
I saw from his eyes that he saw Eudora come out of the house. Everybody looked at Eudora a beat longer than they should. Even before they noticed her eyes.
She came up beside me and offered the men coffee mugs full of water.
Theres no icebox or I would give it to you cold, she said.
They drank it down fast and thanked her.
She took their mugs and went back up to the house and the big man wiped sweat out of his eyes with the heel of his hand just to keep himself from watching her go. The little man was not so artful.
Shall we get started? I said, retiring my shirt and glasses.
Oh no, Mr. Nichols. We paid for this. You jus show us where you want the boxes.
Nonsense. Three will finish faster than two. And then we can eat.
THE MOVING-IN WAS hard, mostly because of the tight turn around the top of the stairs. My rolltop desk was the worst. I could have let the hired men do it, but I felt guilty. A man has to work for his extravagances. I mashed the Holy Ghost hellfire out of my fingers negotiating around that corner, though. Perhaps this was the required sacrifice for all the good writing I hoped to do. I caught the big Negro chewing on the inside of his cheek, trying not to laugh at the funny face I must have made when I hurt myself. I do make funny faces. Then he looked at my hand. It was the first time he noticed the missing finger. He looked away.
I went outside, shaking my hand, and found Dora lying across the hood of the Ford. She had poured herself deerishly across it, upside down, letting the hot metal sting her back through her thin dress. Her eyes were fixed where the sun hung forked in the trees. Her hat slid off her head, the hat with the dried rose on it, and now the light made the gold in her hair catch fire.
