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names, but nothing like that. It had been there, in her head, simultaneous
with the vision. Where had it come from? It sounded faintly bib-lical, but
many strange names sounded "faintly bibli-cal." That's a product of your
upbringing, she told herself. Life had been more solid in Oklahoma. And
colder.
Ehahm-na-Eulae. eHAHM-na-eulae. Oriental, maybe? She'd certainly read enough
about Oriental dragons, ev-erything that was available in the local library.
Always she had the books to herself. Usually she had the library to herself.
In her neighborhood literacy was not consid-ered a prime ingredient for
survival.
If not Oriental, not biblical, how about Hindu? She resolved to research the
lineage as soon as she had the chance. It would be fun. Anything that involved
dragons, even imaginary ones, was pleasurable. It was research in the real
world that was difficult. Like trying to locate a real friend or true lover
(and forget such fantasies as true love).
She washed the dragon spoon carefully, then the dragon mug. Its tail formed
the mug handle. She moved to the dresser and brushed back her hair, the dragon
framing the top of the mirror, holding the mirror firmly for her.
The face that looked back at her out of the mirror was used. Lines formed in
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her forehead like ripples in the sand, and there were sandbags beneath each
eye. No time or need for makeup now . . . she tucked the blouse back into her
skirt and secured her hair in back with a rubber band.
Next to the dresser was a small cabinet. A dragon of Mexican onyx rested on
top. Inside the cabinet were ad-ditional clothes, other personal effects, and
old movie magazines. The top drawer released a couple of bottles, thick-walled
and squat, with seductive mouths now sealed tight by pungent corks. She
hesitated, chose one.
She sipped ladylike from it. Honey-colored liquid burned her throat. She
stared at the bottle, muttered a silent "what the hell," and downed a full,
gut-scouring swallow. She recorked the bottle then, inordinately proud of not
choking, and forced herself to put it back in the cabinet and close the doors.
Two tiny china dragons flanked the black hulk of the telephone. She stared at
it for several minutes before di-aling. The click-click ricocheted inside her
head. Ciga-rette. I wish to God I had a cigarette.
The phone made some peculiar, unfamiliar noises. A strange voice came on.
"Is this . . . ?" and the voice repeated Pearl's number.
"Yes . . . operator? What's the trouble?"
"I'm terribly sorry, Miss, uh . . . Sommer. This is the United Telephone
business office. There seems to be some discrepancy in our records. You appear
to be two months behind in your account? I'm afraid until at least the oldest
bill is paid . . . you understand."
"But I-" She stopped herself. She was a lousy liar. "Look, please, can I make
one collect call?"
"I don't . . ." The voice turned unexpectantly human. "Collect? I suppose
that would be all right. What num-ber would you like, please? I'll try and
connect you through this exchange."
"Thank you, operator, really. I promise I'll get those back payments in right
away, right away." She gave the number. Dialing noises came back at her.
Fearsomely beautiful, a dragon on the far wall snarled down at her from a
poster and gave her courage.
Faint noises, then: "I have a collect call for Frank from Pearl. Will you
accept the charges?"
Mumbling . . . two mumblings, one female. A single click, final in the room,
like the opening of a switch-blade. Then the operator's voice, embarrassed.
"I'm sorry, Miss Sommer. The-"
Pearl hung up. On the operator, on Frank, on that incredible little bitch
Maureen, on that part of her soiled world. Golden haze clouded her thoughts,
and she thought again of the bottles in the cabinet: The onyx dragon guarding
it sat expressionless, solid.
No . . . no, dammit.
She happened to glance at the clock. It was nearly eight. Oh, God.
She splurged on bus fare. Normally she walked to work, but she happened to
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reach the stop just as the bus was pulling up. It would save her twenty-five
minutes.
The precious quarter clanked forlornly as it tumbled out of sight into the
collection box. She walked unsteadily toward the back of the bus. People
turned nervous or curious stares on her. She felt like shouting, screaming
back at them. There wasn't a damn thing wrong with her. Not a damn thing! She
was as good as any of 'em, -better, even. Just some bad luck lately. That
didn't affect the way a person looked, did it? Then what were they all staring
at? Mind your own goddamn business, she yelled silently at them.
Poor commuters crowded the bus, those unable to af-ford a car, the
Untouchables of the freeway society.
Brakes screeched a shrill about-to-stop warning, and she found herself
stumbling forward, oddly fascinated at her inability to keep her balance. A
vapid-faced youth in glasses and jeans caught her, kept her from falling. She
almost said thank you, until she felt one hand fumbling beneath her skirt.
He smirked at her, the oily grin making her angrier than the cheap feel. He
exited the bus before she could curse him.
Her face burning, she slumped into a seat. His hand was branded into her
flesh. Down the aisle, an old black leaned on his cane and chuckled at her.
She turned away, pressed her forehead against the window. In the chill of
early morning it was comfortingly cool. By noon the fog would have burned off
and the coast would be sweltering, unusually humid and hot for southern
California.
A streamlined, writhing shape cavorted through the air outside the bus and
glared with enormous yellow eyes back into her own. She sat up straighter on
the worn seat. Ehahm-na-Eulae, she thought excitedly. Again, here, out-side
the sanctum of her collection.
He was very clear now, the outline sharp and precise, each individual scale
outlined in sunlight. This morning's horror, the sallow-faced pervert who'd
accosted her, all faded at the sight of the glorious bewinged apparition
paralleling the bus.
He kept pace easily, skittering across the tops of cars and trucks. One time
he settled himself on the hood of a big semi like the king of all hood
ornaments, gleaming talons clutching the engine cover while the triple tongue
flicked tantalizingly at her.
He launched himself ahead to perch nimbly on a stop-light, balancing himself
with translucent wings that fil-tered the fire from the morning sun, an eagle
atop a metal broomstick.
For the first time she saw true colors, scales of metallic iridescent green
and blue shot through with slivers of silver. Once he opened his mouth wide [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]