Street says, “Yes,
ma’am.”
Mama Sky says, “I wouldn’t have
anything belonging to that, that—” She spits into a flowerpot. “But
Ms. Brigitte’s a fine lady, and I’d help you for her sake, if I
could. But I can’t.”
O stands. “Dead end, T. Let’s
go.”
Street asks Mama Sky, “Do you ever
shop at the Meandering Market?”
Mama Sky says, “Why would I? I have
my garden. Visitors bring me things. I have much more than I
need.”
O says, “See, T? All done here.
Let’s go.”
Street says, “Did anyone bring
anything like a rock? Maybe something for your garden?”
Mama Sky says, “No, I assure you,
that is not the case.”
O says, “Wasting time, T. You got
free food. Time to move.”
Mama Sky says, “But you know,
someone did bring me something last week. That Stormboy.” She looks
at O. “He’s quite proper, and dependable, too.” She looks at
Street, then laughs. “All kinds of dependable, though. Sometimes
dependable fun is best.”
O says, “Stormboy isn’t dependable
fun. He’s dependable un-fun.”
Mama Sky says, “Maybe I shouldn’t
have pushed you to take up with him.”
“Maybe not,” O
agrees.
“Trickster’s not so
bad,” Mama Sky says. Then she looks at Street and says, “But I’ll
count my silver when you leave.” Then she laughs.
Street says, “I wouldn’t take
anything from you, Mama Sky.”
Mama Sky says, “You know, I believe
you, which proves I have some foolishness in me. But you took
something from Bossman Sevenday.”
Street shrugs. “I don’t like him.”
Then he frowns. “But I didn’t take anything from him.”
Mama Sky says, “Why does he want
you to find his rock?”
Street says proudly, “Because I
can.” Then he frowns. “Bossman Sevenday seems to think I’m
responsible. But I’d remember—”
O says, “What?”
Street says, “That’s
mad.”
O says, “What is?”
Street says, “I remember everything
I did for the last six days. I don’t remember a thing before. It’s
like the world started then.”
Mama Sky smiles. “World’s much,
much older than that, Trickster.”
Street shakes his head, then says,
“What did Stormboy bring you?”
Mama Sky goes to a shelf covered
with little things like white twigs and seashells and porcelain
statues of white and black pugs. She picks up a blue cloth bag tied
with blue string and says, “Stormboy said this brings luck in love.
So long as I don’t look in it, there’s hope for him to court my O.
But if I think he’s not the one to encourage, I might as well open
it and keep what’s in it.” Mama Sky looks at O. “And since you’re
so set on not having him—” She starts to pull the end of the string
that’s tied around the bag.
Street and O yell together,
“No!”
Mama Sky looks at them. “Don’t you
want to know if it’s this black rock?”
Street says, “If I was playing a
trick, I’d set up something like that.” As the women frown at him,
he adds, “Only it’d be a subtler, smarter, and much kinder trick
than I’d expect someone like Stormboy to play.”
O says, “Yours are hardly ever
subtle, smart, or kind.” Then she adds, “But Stormboy’s idea of
subtle is a mudslide or a lightning strike.” She holds her hand out
to Mama Sky. Mama Sky sets the blue bag in O’s palm. O traces the
shape of the thing in the bag, then nods. “It’s the
rock.”
Street says, “And it’s a
trick?”
O nods. “Stormboy is an even more
despicable weasel than you.”
Street grins. “You like someone
less than me?”
O says, “Now you only have to move
higher in my opinion than everyone else in the world.”
Street laughs. “A start is a
start.”
7
As O drives down Cigarillo Canyon,
Street lifts the blue bag off the console. The rock inside is the
size of a small chicken egg. It feels familiar in his
hand.
O says, “Put it back.”
“I was thinking I’d
take a little peek.”
“You were
not.”
“Okay, I was thinking
I’d pretend to take a little peek to trick some information from
you.”
“Like?”
“Like what would
happen if I took a little peek.”
“Why would I
know?”
“Because you stopped
your mother as fast as I did. Maybe faster.”
“Maybe I had the same
thought you did.”
Street tugs the string to untie the
bag.
O says, “No!” and reaches for
it.
Street dangles it just beyond her
reach. “Here’s what I think. I think there’s all kinds of things
you’re not telling.”
“As if that’s hard to
figure out.”
“And something stole
my memories six days ago. This rock.”
O laughs. “A rock takes people’s
memories. Yeah, right.”
“Last, I think if I
take the rock out, I’ll lose six more days, but you’ll lose
everything up to this moment. And we’ll be equal.”
O glances from the road to him.
“That’d be a dirty trick.”
Street nods. “Yeah.” He ties the
bag up and sets it back on the console.
At the end of Cigarillo, O turns
onto Tree Lizard. Street can’t read what’s going on behind her
smooth expression. He thinks that she’s her mother’s daughter, then
wonders why he likes knowing that. He says, “I don’t know if it
means anything to say you’re sorry for something you don’t
remember, but I am sorry.”
O flicks her cool eyes to him, then
back to the road. They’re driving through Flamingoville, a
neighborhood that’s nice for nothing special except being nice:
bright little houses, friendly shops, good cheap restaurants,
sidewalks filled with lazy, happy people.
Street says, “I think I did
something stupid, and you tracked me down, and now you’re trying to
help and punish me at the same time.”
“What do you think
you did?”
“Since you’re too
fine for me to have gone chasing someone else, um, I stole the
black rock from Bossman Sevenday?”
O nods. “You’re such an
idiot.”
Street hits the glove compartment
with the flat of his hand. “Oh, man! I am such an
idiot!”
“I told you
that.”
“I was hoping you’d
say someone framed me. I really stole it?”
“They say you were
drunk at the Talon with a little box, telling our crowd you were
the best thief ever because you could steal the black rock from
Bossman Sevenday and put it back before he noticed. And you had the
rock to prove it.”
“He caught me putting
it back?”
O shakes her head. “Everyone
laughed and said anything could be in that box. How could you know
what you had in it? So you got angry and looked inside—”
“Am I that
stupid?”
O nods. “Then you wandered off
looking twice as drunk. No one knew what happened after that. So I
started asking for the word on Trickster, and I heard about a kid
called Street who went by that handle. The rest is
history.”
Street grins. “So, um, does that
mean you and I are—?”
O says, “Were.”
Street grins wider. “I may be
stupid, but I do have great taste.”
“Did you hear the
past tense?”
Street keeps grinning. “I still
have great taste.”
O shakes her head sadly. “I still
have terrible taste.” Then she finally smiles at him. The wait was
worth it
When O turns the smile back to the
road, Street says, “What bothers me is why a man would have a rock
that makes people forget everything?”
O says, “Who said a man had a rock
like that?”
Street swallows. “So, Bossman
Sevenday is—?”
O says, “Who would you steal from
to prove you’re the best thief ever?”
“Not the All One. No
way it’s the All One. Tell me I’m not that stupid.”
O says,”You’re not that
stupid.”
Street stares ahead, and feels his
eyes stretching wide, and he wants to scream. He closes his mouth
and says quietly, “Death. I’m stupid enough to steal from
Death.”
O nods. “All the newly dead still
have their memories, thanks to you. Bossman says they’re making
quite the ruckus. He’ll be glad to get the rock back.”
Street looks at the blue bag. “He’s
getting it back. He’ll be glad.” Street laughs. “Nothing to be
worried about, then.”
O says, “He’s Death.”
Street says, “Is there someplace
else we can go?”
“Where Death can’t
find you?”
Street tries to swallow again, but
his throat is dry. He says in a rough whisper, “Then let’s take him
the rock.”
“Good,” says O, and
she turns off Memorial into the big ivory gates to Bossman
Sevenday’s home.
8
As they walk up the white marble
steps, the door is opened by an elegant dark woman in a dress as
black as the heart of a cave. She says, “You’re early.”
O says, “Yes, ma’am.”
Street says, “You’re Ms. Brigitte?
I’m—”
“Trickster,” says the
dark woman. “Indeed, you are. I shall tell my husband—”
Bossman Sevenday’s voice booms from
deep within the mansion. “Trickster! Oya! So good of you to return
so soon!”
Ms. Brigitte steps back, opening
the door wide. A pale hall with many closed doors along its sides
stretches into murky shadows. Street’s focus is on Bossman
Sevenday, striding toward them in impeccable evening wear. Even the
near end of the long hall is dim. There’s a reddish glow to the
west, though Street was sure he came into the house from
midafternoon.
Ms. Brigitte says, “Business tires
me,” and leaves the hall, closing a pair of white doors behind her.
The air smells of cigarettes and perfume and oranges and peanut
butter and all the other smells that Street has ever known, but
muted. He hears music and laughter and crying and gasps that are
the sound of loving or dying, equally muted. He looks at O.
“Oya?”
She nods.
He says, “A good name. I’m sorry I
forgot it.”
She smiles, and he thinks that if
nothing is good after this moment, he could be content. And then he
thinks that’s the stupidest thought he has ever had, because he
wants everything to be even better. He calls, “Mr. Bossman
Sevenday, sir? I’ve got your rock.” He holds out the cloth
bag.
As Bossman Sevenday reaches for it,
Street thinks about jerking the stone out. But it belongs to
Bossman Sevenday, who must know how to show it to the dead without
forgetting who he is. Maybe his dark glasses let him look on the
stone. Street could knock off the glasses. The idea is tempting,
but it doesn’t seem like a good idea to risk making Death like him
even less. Letting Bossman take the bag, Street says, “I’m glad to
have this straightened out. Taking something from Bossman Sevenday!
You know only a fool would do that.”
“Yes, I do,” says
Bossman Sevenday, laughing as he takes Street’s arm. “Walk with
me.”
O says, “The gem’s back. Everything
is back the way it should be now.”
Bossman Sevenday says, “Not quite.
Someone stole from me.”
Street almost smiles in pride, then
stops himself. “Not really, Mr. Bossman Sevenday, sir. You’ve got
the rock back. And if you’ve got it, it’s like it was never gone,
so no one could say anything was taken. Not really. If you see what
I mean.”
Bossman Sevenday laughs. “They’ll
talk, Trickster. Which is why you must come with me
now.”
Street says, “Oya, want to wait
outside for me? I shouldn’t be long.”
Bossman Sevenday shakes his head
and laughs louder. “Ah, Trickster, don’t ask her to be that
patient.”
Street says, “You’re taking me
now?”
Bossman Sevenday nods.
“And I’m not coming
back?”
Bossman Sevenday nods
again.
“I didn’t expect
this.”
Bossman Sevenday says, “Expecting
things is not one of your gifts, Trickster.”
O says, “Bossman, I’m
asking—”
Bossman Sevenday shakes his head.
“Some things I must do with no thought of others.”
Street says, “I can’t believe it.
No one’ll believe it at first.”
Bossman Sevenday says, “Believe
what?”
Street drops to his knees. “Oya!
See me here before the Bossman!”
As O squints at him, Bossman
Sevenday says, “Begging won’t save you.”
“I’m not begging.”
Street clasps his hands together.
Bossman Sevenday says, “Sure looks
like—”
Street cries, “Thank you, Mr.
Bossman Sevenday, sir! Thank you!”
Bossman Sevenday frowns.