The Book of Joby (63 page)

“Sorry, Mom,” said Cob, sounding anything but contrite. “Joby, this is my mom, Muriel. Mom, this is Joby,” he gestured grandly toward Joby, “the guy who hates our food! Hope our table’s ready. I sure don’t want him thinkin’ the service sucks here too.”

Joby felt himself blanch.

“Pleased to meet you, Joby,” said Cob’s mother. “I’m glad you’re giving us a second try.”

“Good to meet you too,” Joby replied, silently cursing her son. “Whatever Cob’s told you, I really haven’t eaten out much, well, at all, really, since I came here—to Taubolt, I mean, not your restaurant—I mean, I’ve never been to your restaurant, but Cob made this joke about—” He turned to Cob, who was the very picture of malicious glee, and pleaded, “Tell her!”

By then, everyone was laughing, including Muriel. “Cob told me what happened,” she assured Joby, “and, anyway, I know all about my son’s evil tricks.” She grinned as if it made her proud. “For being such a good sport, though, your dinner is on us tonight.”

Despite Joby’s polite protests, she insisted, and they were quickly seated at a simply but elegantly appointed table near the center of the restaurant.

Their meal was remarkable, and the price tag made it even tastier for Joby, who’d come braced to invest a reckless portion of his first month’s pay in dinner for four. Given the company, it was hardly surprising that their food was seasoned with considerable merriment as well until, as they were finishing their entrées and thinking about dessert, Jenna, their waitress, arrived smiling uncomfortably.

“Sorry, guys,” she whispered, “but some customers over there have asked that you keep it down.” She smiled apologetically, gave them a “what can I do?” shrug, and left.

Cal looked around in irritated disbelief. Swami gazed at his plate humorlessly, toying with a forkful of fish.

“Well, that’s too damn bad,” Cob protested in a stage whisper too loud for comfort. “This is my mom’s restaurant, and I’ll have fun here if I want to! Who are these whiny richards anyway?”

Jenna hadn’t said. But Joby spotted two self-consciously dignified older women studiously ignoring them. One was dreadfully thin, voluminous coils of shining black hair piled on her head and thrust through with red lacquered chopsticks. She wore ostentatiously stylish clothes, and carefully applied, if rather excessive, makeup. The other woman’s hair was white, and bobbed off just below her ears. She was rather heavyset, with thick glasses and a fixed expression of unfocused discontent.

The boys noticed them too, and when Jenna returned for their dessert orders, Cob asked if they’d been the ones to complain. Jenna nodded sheepishly, then cut Cob off as he began to describe, in grizzly detail, what he intended to go say to them.

“Don’t you dare, Cob! The thin one’s local, and a regular customer. Your mother would kill you, and probably me as well for not doing something to stop you.”

“Local!” growled Cob. “Since when? I never saw her before in my life!”

“Last month,” Jenna whispered. “Bought that big house on Stevens Street.”

Later, as they ate their desserts in gloomy silence, Joby couldn’t help recalling all the other politely disapproving killjoys he’d run into during his life, from grade-school teachers to those “respectable neighbors” who’d helped engineer Gypsy’s death. By the time he’d finished his cobbler, Joby had conceived of a plan for one small sliver of revenge to which, he imagined, no one could object. Hoping that just being publicly acknowledged as the complainers would make them uncomfortable, he got up and walked toward their table, preparing a very thorough apology.

“Excuse me,” he told them, brightly, “but I felt I should apologize for upsetting you earlier.”

He’d been right. Neither of them even wanted to look at him.

“It was rude of us to laugh so much over dinner,” Joby said, “and I’m glad you sent the waitress over. To be honest, it was kind of a relief to eat dessert in silence. Kids get so noisy when they’re happy, don’t they?”

“Oh yes!” said the dumpy one, clearly taking him seriously.

The dark-haired wraith gave her friend a disapproving look, then turned to Joby and said, “We’re fine now.” She went back to her food then, as if Joby had left. But Joby didn’t feel their grievance had been anything like sufficiently aired. That was the game ladies like this played, wasn’t it; flawlessly mannered malice?

“That’s very kind of you,” he said, “but I really should have done something to clamp down on all that fun, myself. In fact, worrying about it has completely ruined my meal. I’d feel much better if you’d let me make it up to you by paying for your dinners.”

“Well, aren’t you a nice boy!” the dumpier woman exclaimed in surprise.

The wraith gave her companion another tired look, then turned to Joby, and said, “If you’re really so contrite, young man, I’d rather you taught your rude acquaintances something of silence in public places; and to dress appropriately for dinner.” She looked disdainfully across the room at them. “They may get away with such behavior in this permissive backwater, but someday they’ll find themselves out in the
real
world, and discover that civilized people are not so tolerant.” She looked down her nose at Joby. “One wonders where their parents are.”

Serving you dinner,
Joby thought angrily.

“We didn’t move up here,” the dragon lady added, “to be bombarded with loud noise and rough language every time we step outside.”

She returned to her meal, dismissing him with scornful finality. But Joby was too offended to contain himself.

“Rest assured, Ms. . . .” He waited for a name.

“Agnes Hamilton,” answered the woman’s clueless companion. “And I’m Franny Tyndale.” She smiled, seemingly oblivious to any nuance of the real conversation here.

“Rest assured, Ms. Hamilton,” Joby continued, coldly, “that everyone who
grew up here
will be informed of your arrival, and told to remain silent in your presence.”

When Hamilton made no reply, he left them to their meals, wishing them every kind of indigestion and a bone-dry well that summer.

When she’d gotten Jake his tea, Clara Connolly sat down and stirred some honey into her own, wishing their discussion were so easily sweetened.

Tom spread his hands in dismay. “I’m completely flummoxed, Jake. First that Hamilton woman, and now this! What’s happening to the border?”

Jake shook his head. “World’s been changin’, Tom. More people out there every day, crowdin’ up against us on every side. You know Taubolt’s little charms are mostly sleight of hand. Such tricks don’t work so good when folks get up too close.”

Tom stared bleakly into his cup.

“Come on.” Jake smiled. “Didja really think this was never gonna happen? People were only bound to overlook a big empty hole in their crowded little box for just so long, no matter what we did.”

“So what do we do about Bruech?” Tom sighed. “A few questionable new residents is one thing, but it sounds like this mystery investor wants to buy the whole place, lock, stock, and barrel.”

“Just tell him the owners don’t want to sell.” Jake shrugged.

“Sure,” Tom said, “but what if Bruech goes looking for himself and finds a few willing ognibs, like Weston. They’re not gonna see the bigger picture.”

“Comin’ to Taubolt ain’t the same as stayin’, Tom. You know that well as I do.”

Tom shook his head, unsatisfied. “I’ve said it before, Jake. I think it’s unwise to leave so many of Taubolt’s own residents in the dark. Once it’s clear they belong here, ognibs ought to be told the whole truth, not just tossed
red herrings and innuendos. If the border’s failing, it seems more crucial than ever that we all pull together. If I’d been able to talk openly with Stan Weston, Hamilton and Tyndale wouldn’t be here now.”

“I feel the same frustration all the time, Tom,” Clara said, “but you know it wouldn’t work.”

“Why not?” Tom insisted. “They live here, for heaven’s sake! They’re good people! Look at Crombie. He’s an ognib, but we made him a guardian! Gladys Lindsay’s not of the blood, but the Council meets at her inn! If they know, why not the others?”

“ ’Cause a lot of ’em just don’t want to,” Jake said gently. “I admire your attitude, Tom, but a lot of people here just couldn’t handle it. Look at our kids. They play their little games practically in plain sight, for all we warn ’em not to. You think the ognib kids don’t see what goes on? But mention it to ’em, and most just go blank or explain it away somehow. It’s not their world, Tom, and, frankly, it’s not their problem either.”

“Besides, dear,” Clara added, “you know that sooner or later someone would find it all too interesting to keep to themselves.”

Tom threw his hands up. “Maybe you’re right, but it would sure make a lot of things easier. Hiding from the world is one thing. Hiding from our neighbors is another. . . . So what about Bruech, Jake?”

“People throwin’ big money around usually think they’re doin’ you a huge favor,” Jake mused. “If you don’t act grateful enough, they’ll teach you a lesson by takin’ their business elsewhere.” He smiled. “Just keep rushin’ him off like that. Wait a couple days to return his calls. Have a lot of trouble locatin’ the owners. Act like you’re only givin’ it half your attention, and maybe he’ll just get mad and walk.”

“Okay,” Tom said. “But if this invasion’s going to continue, I think it’s time the Council met and came up with some more focused approach.”

Jake leaned back thoughtfully. “You’re prob’ly right. I’ll talk to the others and arrange it with Gladys.”

Tom looked relieved, and Clara was too. Better the whole Council deal with this than leave her husband holding the bag. Still, she was surprised at how unconcerned Jake seemed and couldn’t help wondering if the ancient knew something he wasn’t telling.

With subdued farewells all around, Joby left the Bobs outside the Heron’s Bowl, and went to walk off his lingering anger at that obnoxious woman on
Taubolt’s now-deserted wooden sidewalks. Soon he had abandoned the darkened shop fronts of Main Street to wander out across the bright, moonlit fields and walk along the cliff tops, listening to the surf below, like the soft, regular breathing of some enormous sleeping child.

Before long, he’d grown calm enough to face the fact that his clever little plan to embarrass that woman had been anything but clever. He had only spread her stain even further over their evening by embarrassing himself. The Bobs’ bad influence no doubt, he thought with a wry smile. He’d have to be more careful in the future to act his age, not theirs, however infectious their age did seem at times. He was supposed to be
their
role model, after all.

Feeling relaxed enough to sleep now, Joby turned to head back to the inn, but just then some new sound joined the ocean’s rush and sigh beyond the cliffs. Someone down on the beach was singing—quite loudly.

Joby went back to peer over the cliff edge and soon spotted a somewhat portly man standing on an outcrop of rock jutting well into the water. His arms were spread theatrically as he sang at the top of his lungs—something by Gilbert and Sullivan, Joby thought, perhaps a bit off-key. Then Joby noticed small bobbing shapes in the moonlit water at the singer’s feet. As a wave came in, several of them submerged suddenly, only to resurface elsewhere seconds later. Who would be swimming this long after dark? Joby wondered. Then, one of the swimming audience began to bark almost as musically as the singer, and Joby realized that the man was singing to seals! And the seals were listening!