Daughter of Regals (41 page)

“I’ve got the rest of the
pieces,” he said to Root. “They’re in a truck out back. I think you’ll like—”

Then my presence
registered on him. He stopped with a jerk, stared at me as if I’d come back
from the dead. “What’re
you
doing here?’ he demanded. At once, he turned
back to Root. “What is
he
doing here?”

Root’s confidence was a
complete insult. “Reese,” he sighed, “I’m afraid that this—gentleman?—believes
that I should not show your work tomorrow.”

For a moment, Reese was
too astonished to be angry. His mouth actually hung open while he looked at me.
But I was furious enough for both of us. With one sentence, Root had made my
position impossible. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say now that would
change the outcome.

Still, I had to try.
While Reese’s surprise built up into outrage, I said as if I weren’t swearing
like a madman inside, “There are two sides to everything. You’ve heard his. You
really ought to listen to mine.”

He closed his mouth,
locked his teeth together. His glare was wild enough to hurt.

‘Mortice Root owes you a
little honesty,” I said while I had the chance. “He should have told you long
ago that he’s planning to drop you after tomorrow.

But the sheer pettiness
of what I was saying made me cringe. And Root simply laughed. I should have
known better than to try to fight him on his own level. Now he didn’t need to
answer me at all.

In any case, my jibe
made no impression on Reese. He gritted, “I don’t care about that,” like a man
who couldn’t or wouldn’t understand. “This is what I care about.” He gestured frantically
around the room.
“This.
My work.”

He took a couple of
steps toward me, and his voice shook with the effort he made to keep from
shouting. “I don’t know who you are—or why you think I’m any of your business.
I don’t care about that, either. You’ve heard Kristen’s side. Now you’re going
to hear mine.”

In a small way, I was
grateful he didn’t accuse me of turning his sister against him.

“She doesn’t like the
work I’m doing now. No, worse than that. She doesn’t mind the work. She doesn’t
like the
clay.”
He gave a laugh like an echo of Root’s. But he didn’t
have Root’s confidence and power; he only sounded bitter, sarcastic, and
afraid. “She tries to tell me she approves of me, but I can read her face like
a book.

“Well, let me tell you
something.” He poked a trembling finger at my chest. “With my show tomorrow, I’m
alive for the first time in ten years. I’m alive
here.
Art exists to
communicate. It isn’t worth manure if it doesn’t communicate, and it can’t
communicate if somebody doesn’t look at it. It’s that simple. The only time an
artist is alive is when somebody looks at his work. And if enough people look,
he can live forever.

“I’ve been sterile for
ten years because I haven’t had one other soul to look at my work.” He was so
wrapped up in what he was saying, I don’t think he even noticed how completely
he dismissed his sister. “Now I am alive. If it only lasts for one more day, it’ll
still be something nobody can take away from me. If I have to work in black clay
to get that, who cares? That’s just something I didn’t know about myself—about
how my imagination works. I never had the chance to try black clay before.

“But now—” He couldn’t
keep his voice from rising like a cry. “Now I’m alive. Here. If you want to
take that away from me, you’re worse than trash. You’re evil.”

Mortice Root was smiling
like a saint.

For a moment, I bad to
look away. The fear behind the passion in Reese’s eyes was more than I could
stand. “I’m sorry,” I murmured. What else could I say? I regretted everything.
He needed me desperately, and I kept failing him. And he placed so little value
on his sister. With a private groan, I forced myself to face him again.

“I thought it was work
that brought artists to life. Not shows. I thought the work was worth doing
whether anybody looked at it or not. Why else did you keep at it for ten
years?”

But I was still making
the same mistake, still trying to reach him through his art. And now I’d
definitely said something he couldn’t afford to hear or understand. With a
jerky movement like a puppet, he threw up his hands. “I don’t have time for
this,” he snapped. “I’ve got five more pieces to set up.” Then, suddenly, he
was yelling at me. “And I don’t give one lousy damn what you think!” Somehow,
I’d hit a nerve. “I want you to go away. I want you to leave me alone! Get out
of here and leave me alone!”

I didn’t have any
choice. As soon as he told me to go I turned toward the door. But I was
desperate myself now. Knotting my fists, I held myself where I was. Urgently—so
urgently that I could hardly separate the words—I breathed at him, “Have you
looked at Kristen recently? Really looked? Haven’t you seen what’s happening
to her? You—”

Root stopped me. He had
that power. Reese had told me to go. Root simply raised his hand, and his
strength hit me in the chest like a fist. My tongue was clamped to the roof of
my mouth. My voice choked in my throat. For one moment while I staggered, the
greenhouse turned in a complete circle, and I thought I was going to be thrown
out of the world.

But I wasn’t. A couple
of heartbeats later, I got my balance back.

Helpless to do anything
else, I left the greenhouse.

As I crossed the foyer
toward the front door, Reese shouted after me, “And stay away from my sister!”

Until I closed the door,
I could hear Mortice Root chuckling with pleasure.

Dear God! I prayed. Let
me decide. Just this once. He Isn’t worth it.

But I didn’t have the
right.

On the other hand, I didn’t have to stay
away from Kristen. That was up to her; Reese didn’t have any say in the matter.

 I made myself walk
slowly until I was out of sight of The Root Cellar, just in case someone was
watching. Then  I started to run.

It was the middle of the
afternoon, and the heat just kept getting worse. After the cool of Root’s
mansion, the outside air felt like glue against my face. Sweat oozed into my
eyes, stuck my coat to my back, itched maliciously in my dirty whiskers. The
sunlight looked liked it was congealing on the walks and streets. Grimly, I thought,
If this city doesn’t get some rain soon it will start to burn.

And yet I wanted the day
to last, despite the heat. I would happily have caused the sun to stand still.
I did not want to have to face Mortice Root and Reese Dona again after dark.

But I would have to deal
with that possibility when it  came up. First I had to get Kristen’s help. And
to do that, I had to reach her.

The city did its best to
hinder me. I left Root’s neighborhood easily enough; but when I entered the
slums, I started having problems. I guess a running man dressed in nothing but
an overcoat, a pair of pants, and sidesplit shoes looked like too much fun to
miss. Gangs of kids seemed to materialize out of the ruined buildings to get in
my way.

They should have known
better. They were predators themselves, and I was on a hunt of my own; when
they saw the danger in my eyes, they backed down. Some of them threw bottles
and trash at my back, but that didn’t matter.

Then the sidewalks
became more and more crowded as the slum faded behind me. People stepped in
front of me, jostled me off my stride, swore angrily at me as I tried to run
past. I had to slow down just to keep myself out of trouble. And all the lights
were against me. At every corner, I had to wait and wait while mobs hemmed me
in, instinctively blocking the path of anyone who wanted to get ahead of them.
I felt like I was up against an active enemy. The city was rising to defend its
own.

By the time I reached
the street I needed to take .me over to 21st, I felt so ragged and wild I
wanted to shake my fists at the sky and demand some kind of assistance or
relief. But if God couldn’t see how much trouble I was in, He didn’t deserve
what I was trying to do in His name. So I did the best I could—running in
spurts, walking when I had to, risking the streets whenever I saw a break in
the traffic. And finally I made it. Trembling, I reached the building where
Reese and Kristen had their apartment.

Inside, it was as hot as
an oven, baking its inhabitants to death. But here at least there was nobody in
my way, and I took the stairs two and three at a time to the fourth floor. The
lightbulb over the landing was out, but I didn’t have any trouble finding the
door I needed.

I pounded on it with my
fist. Pounded again. Didn’t hear anything. Hammered at the wood a third time.

“Kristen!” I shouted. I
didn’t care how frantic I sounded. “Let me in! I’ve got to talk to you!”

Then I heard a small,
faint noise through the panels. She must have been right on the other side of
the door. Weakly, she said, “Go away.”

“Kristen!” Her dismissal
left a welt of panic across my heart. I put my mouth to the crack of the door
to make her hear me. “Reese needs help. If he doesn’t get it, you’re not going
to survive. He doesn’t even realize he’s sacrificing you.”

After a moment, the lock
clicked, and the door opened.

I went in.

The apartment was dark.
She’d turned off all the lights. When she closed the door behind me, I couldn’t
see a thing. I had to stand still so I wouldn’t bump into Reese’s sculptures.

“Kristen,” I said, half
pleading, half commanding; “Turn on a light.”

Her reply was a whisper
of misery. “You don’t want to see me.”

She sounded so beaten I
almost gave up hope. Quietly, I said, “Please.”

She couldn’t refuse. She
needed me too badly. I felt her move past me in the dark. Then the overhead
lights clicked on, and I saw her.

I shouldn’t have been
shocked—I knew what to expect—but that didn’t help. The sight of her went into
me like a knife.

She was wearing only a
terry cloth bathrobe. That made sense; she’d been poor for a long time and didn’t
want to ruin her good clothes. The collar of her robe was soaked with blood.

Her nosebleed was worse.

And delicate red streams
ran steadily from both her ears.

Sticky trails marked her
lips and chin, the front of her throat, the sides of her neck. She’d given up
trying to keep herself clean. Why should she bother? She was bleeding to death,
and she knew it.

Involuntarily, I went to
her and put my arms around her.

She leaned against me. I
was all she had left. Into my shoulder, she said as if she were on the verge of
tears. “I can’t help him anymore. I’ve tried and tried. I don’t know what else
to do.”

She stood there
quivering; and I held her and stroked her hair and let her blood soak into my
coat. I didn’t have any other way to comfort her.

But her time was running
out, just like Reese’s. The longer I waited, the weaker she would be. As soon
as she became a little steadier, I lowered my arms and stepped back. In spite
of the way I looked, I wanted her to be able to see what I was.

“He doesn’t need that
kind of help now,” I said softly, willing her to believe me. Not the kind you’ve
been giving him for ten years. “Not anymore. He needs me. That’s why I’m here.

“But I have to have
permission.” I wanted to cry at her, You’ve been letting him do this to you for
ten years’ None of this would’ve happened to you if you hadn’t allowed it! But
I kept that protest to myself. “He keeps sending me away, and I have to go. I
don’t have any choice. I can’t do anything without permission.

“It’s really that
simple.” God, make her believe me! “I need somebody with me who wants me to be
there. I need you to go back to The Root Cellar with me. Even Root won’t be
able to get rid of me if you want me to stay.

“Kristen.” I moved
closer to her again, put my hands in the blood on her cheek, on the side of her
neck. “I’ll find some way to save him. If you’re there to give me permission.”

She didn’t look at me;
she didn’t seem to have the courage to raise her eyes. But after a moment I
felt the clear touch of grace. She believed me—when I didn’t have any
particular reason to believe myself. Softly, she said, “I can’t go like this.
Give me a minute to change my clothes.”

She still didn’t look at
me. But when she turned to leave the room, I saw determination mustering in the
corners of her eyes.

I breathed a prayer of long
overdue thanks. She intended to fight.

I waited for her with fear beating in my
bones. And when she returned—dressed in her dingy blouse and fraying skirt,
with a towel wrapped around her neck to catch the blood—and announced that she
was ready to go, I faltered. She looked so wan and frail—already weak and unnaturally
pale from loss of blood. I felt sure she wasn’t going to be able to walk all
the way to The Root Cellar.

Carefully, I asked her
if there was any other way we could get where we were going. But she shrugged
the question aside. She and Reese had never owned a car. And he’d taken what
little money was available in order to rent a truck to take his last pieces to
the gallery.

Groaning a silent appeal
for help, I held her arm to give her what support I could. Together, we left
the apartment, went down the old stairs and out to the street.

I felt a new sting of
dread when I saw that the sun was setting. For all my efforts to hurry, I’d
taken too much time. Now I would have to contend with Mortice Root at night.

Twilight and darkness
brought no relief from the heat. The city had spent all day absorbing the
pressure of the sun; now the walks and buildings, every stretch of cement
seemed to emit fire like the sides of a furnace. The air felt thick and
ominous—as charged with intention as a thunderstorm, but trapped somehow,
prevented from release, tense with suffering.