Barnes nodded again. “I can see how you would.”
“After you left us tonight, I talked with our host. He told me something of his sorrows, his fears. Much more, I think, than he thought himself to tell, because he believed me unenlightened. He is old, and his mind is full of death and no longer so clear as he thinks. In the end, he could not resist a small demonstration of his power.”
“Are you saying Mr. Free is, well, somebody like you?”
The witch’s smile flashed. “You are a man of intelligence indeed, my Ozzie. Like me and yet unlike, for I could not have done what he did. I believe him one of the lesser acaryas. Unless a student is contacted by them, as sometimes happens, she is fortunate to meet and recognize one such in a lifetime. Tonight he let slip something of the greatest importance. My Ozzie, have you never wished to be rich? Powerful? I do not mean what is called wealthy. Nor do I mean power in the sense that a mayor or governor is said to be powerful. I speak of endless riches, of real gold, emeralds, sapphires, and diamonds, and of the power of life and death over hundreds of millions.”
“More than anything else in the world!” Barnes looked surprised at his own vehemence.
“Mr. Free—or rather, the person we are told to call by that name—has concealed a talisman. The acaryas do so at times, putting by their crowns and orbs, regalia more than earthly, to encounter us at a level. Now he lacks strength to take it up again. But if we could find it …”
“You mean this,” Barnes said. “You’re serious.”
“I was never more so. Do not think to cheat me of the prize, Ozzie. You could no more wield such a talisman than you could summon the green-haired wantons of the sea. Less. But if you will help me, you shall be my vizier in an empire encompassing all the world.” The witch’s hands toyed with his own, stroking their backs, tickling their palms.
Icy though the room was, his face was damp with sweat. He drew one hand away and wiped it with the faded sleeve of his robe. “I wish I knew if you’re crazy.”
For an instant the witch glared, then she laughed. “In comparison to me, you are all of you lunatics. No, idiots—save Free. You said you longed for wealth and power, and you are destitute. What have you to lose, my Ozzie?”
“I don’t think you’re crazy,” Barnes told her. “What do you want me to do?”
Breakfast
The fat girl tottered into the kitchen. A golden trumpet of sunshine striking the scuffed linoleum made her squint and press her temples with plump, pink hands.
Her robe was pink as well, pink with the violent, almost ferocious, fluorescent pinkness found only in discount stores. Like her disordered yellow hair, it made her seem an immense doll, still bright, yet abandoned and bedraggled.
The old man rose and pulled the shade.
“You got any coffee, Mr. Free?”
Free shook his head. “Sorry. There ain’t one thing.”
“I couldn’t eat,” Candy said. “I just want some coffee.”
“I ain’t had nothing either.”
“No breakfast?”
“That feller Barnes went out last night and got some stuff, but it’s all gone now.”
Candy yawned, pulled out the top of her pink robe, and glanced down at herself. “Wait till I get dressed.”
“Got nothin’ else to do,” the old man said. When she was gone, he opened a closet, got out a broom, and began to sweep. The kitchen had not been swept for a long time. Strange crumbs and crusts mingled with the gritty dust; there were bent beer-bottle caps and little splinters of broken glass. He opened the back door and pushed them all into a backyard filled with rubbish and gay with morning glories.
“Here I am,” the fat girl said. Under the plastic coat she wore a pink sweater (near relative to the pink robe) and a black wool skirt. Her shoes were open-toed sandals with thick wooden soles. “Get your coat, Mr. Free. I’ll treat you to some eggs.”
“That’ll be good.” The old man sighed. “I ain’t had no eggs in quite a time.” He stood the broom in a corner.
Outside, sunlight danced on the snow. “Your feet’s goin’ to freeze,” he told her as they went down the front steps.
“Lost my boots,” the fat girl said. “I must have left them up at Marty’s.”
“And come home barefoot?”
“He drove me,” the fat girl said. “Anyway, somebody did. Maybe I’ll have to buy some more.” She was combing her hair with her fingers. Its short, springy curls came closer and closer to their normal appearance each time her fingers passed through them. “If I seem kind of crabby, don’t pay attention. I’ve got the most terrible headache.”
“You seem real fine to me.”
“Thanks. I feel like I’m going to chuck.”
“I ain’t never had words with an egg in my whole life.”
Candy giggled. “Me neither.”
The Sandwich Shop was open again; they took a booth near the front. “I love these damn things,” she said. “I’m never comfortable in a chair.”
The old man nodded solemnly.
“They ought to take into account that some people are bigger. Like, look at those stools at the counter. They’ll kill you. Sitting on a bed is okay, but you can’t rest your back.”
A middle-aged waitress brought them menus.
“I just want coffee,” the fat girl said. “You’ve got the bottomless cup, right? All the refills I want?”
The waitress said, “Fifty cents.”
“Uh huh.”
“I can’t read this,” Free announced. “But I know what I want. I want two basted eggs. Can I have some ham?”
“Ham,” the waitress said.
“Uh huh, go ahead,” the fat girl told him.
“Then I want some. Tea, if it ain’t too much trouble.”
“Tea.” The waitress nodded and went behind the counter. “Blind ’em. Country on the side.”
“Coffee will fix me up,” the fat girl said. “But it’s better with a little liquor in it.”
“That’ll go for most things.”
Candy giggled again. “I bet you were a swinger. A big, good-looking guy.”
The waitress returned with ice water, cups, and tin teapot. “You want cream and sugar?”
“Lots of sugar,” the fat girl told her. She dumped three packets into her cup, stirred it negligently, and drained it, then sat for a moment with her hands pressed to her temples. “More!” she called after the waitress. Free was moving the tea bag up and down in his pot; the fat girl leaned toward him, lowering her voice. “Can you still get it up, Mr. Free?”
He chuckled. “How’d I know that?”
“If you want to try, just ask me. When I’m not so wasted, okay? If you can’t, don’t worry about it. I’ve seen it happen with a lot of younger guys.”
“You’re a kind-hearted woman, Miz Garth.”
The waitress refilled the fat girl’s cup and dropped a fresh handful of sugar packets on the table. They bore the likenesses of poets: Byron, Shelley, Keats.
“I’m a sick one,” Candy said. “My head hurts me like you wouldn’t believe.” Her plump fingers trepanned the poets.
“Wish I knew something to help you.”
“I know already. I took four aspirins before I came downstairs the first time, and I drank about a quart of water. Now just give me six or eight cups of coffee and I’ll be fine.”
“Used to know a man that breathed steam. Him and me had a pot we’d make stew in and suchlike, and he’d fill her with water and set her on the fire till she boiled. Then he’d take her off and put his head down and pull a blanket over him.”
“That was a different kind of headache,” the fat girl told Free. “Or maybe not.” She had drunk half her coffee while he spoke. “See, what I’m doing is maybe the same thing, only on the inside. Your buddy put his water in his pot and I put mine in mine.” She patted her belly. “Now I’m boiling it. When we get back to your house, I’ll pull the blanket up for three or four hours.”