Resurrecting Ravana (7 page)

While the students of Sunnydale High were just arriving at school by bus, car, or on foot, two aging retirees stepped out onto their front porches in the well-kept residential neighborhood known as Clover Circle. It was one of the oldest neighborhoods in Sunnydale; many of the people who lived there had moved in when it was a new development, and had stayed there long enough to grow old with it.

Tom Niles and Delbert Kepley were two such residents. They had lived next door to each other for over forty years. In their younger days, they and their wives had gone dancing and to movies together, camping, hiking . . . they’d done everything together. As the years wore on, they took up bridge; Tom and Delbert went fishing together several times a year, and their wives got together afternoons to crochet and watch their stories on television. When Tom’s wife died, Delbert and his wife, Madge, had given him the support he needed to adjust to life alone. Tom and Fran had raised two children, who were now gone, grown and with children of their own. Madge was unable to have children, and she and Delbert had discussed adoption, but somehow they’d never quite gotten around to it.

Their yards were immaculate, cared for daily with loving hands. Short, perfectly trimmed shrubs grew along the white picket fences that went around each of their large front lawns, and in the years since Tom’s wife died, Madge had tended the flowers that grew on both sides of the white picket fence that separated their yards.

The two men stood on their porches, surveying their yards. But they did not come down the steps and greet one another or chat over the fence, as they usually did. Nor had they done so the day before, or the day before that. A chill had developed between the two friends, suddenly and for no apparent reason.

Madge had questioned Delbert about it after Tom hadn’t come over to watch “Wheel of Fortune” and “Jeopardy” two nights in a row, but he’d replied with no more than a frown, a shake of his head, and a growling mumble about being fed up with something or other. She assumed he would tell her about it when he was ready, providing it lasted that long; whatever tiff the two men were having would most likely disappear unacknowledged very soon, as it always did.

As Tom disappeared into his garage, Delbert went back into his house and returned with a portable radio and a steaming mug of coffee. There were two battered old chairs on the covered porch, and Delbert sat in the one that rocked. He put his coffee on the porch’s bannister, found a sports talk show on the radio, and set it next to the mug. He sat back in his chair contentedly to rock gently, sip his coffee, and listen to the radio host discuss pro football with his callers.

From next door, a sound roared to life so suddenly and loudly that Delbert jerked in the creaky old rocker and spilled some coffee on his lap from the mug that was halfway to his mouth. He sat forward, put the cup back on the bannister, and cursed quietly as he brushed at the coffee on his pants. The sound continued: an obnoxious growl so loud and deep, Delbert could feel it in the porch beneath his feet when he stood. He went down the steps to the front walk and turned toward his friend’s house.

Tom was on the riding lawnmower his son had given him last Christmas. It was small and compact, but sounded like a monster truck rally, as far as Delbert was concerned. Besides that, it was completely unnecessary, because Tom’s yard wasn’t big enough to need a riding lawnmower.

Although Tom’s back was to him at the moment, Delbert shouted at him, told him it was too early in the morning for all that racket, sprinkling his diatribe with a few choice curse words. His words were swallowed up by the lawnmower’s noise, but as Tom turned around and headed back in his direction, he saw Delbert’s mouth working, saw his fist shaking angrily. Tom yelled back, waving an arm at Delbert several times. Neither one could hear the other, but each made his point.

Delbert went back up on the porch as Madge pushed the screen door open and leaned out from inside the house. She wore a green-and-yellow flower-print dress and a white apron hung from around her neck; she tied it in back as she spoke.

“Did I hear you yelling something out here, Del?” she asked.

“Oh, it’s that damned riding mower of Tom’s,” he muttered as he grabbed the coffee mug from the bannister. “Acts like he’s tilling a field over there. Hell, we’ve got a bigger lawn than he does.” He started back down the porch steps.

“What’s wrong with you two?” Madge asked. “Are you having some kind of stupid fight?”

“Never mind,” he called over his shoulder. “Go back inside.”

“For goodness’ sake, Del,” she said, louder, “you’ve been friends for forty years!”

“Just go do the dishes!” he snapped.

Delbert went down the walkway a few steps, then onto the lawn, over to the fence that separated his lawn from Tom’s. He started shouting again as he emptied the coffee mug onto the grass. Tom saw him and yelled back, gesturing obscenely. That stiff middle finger stabbing up in the air, knobby with arthritis, angered Delbert even more. He hefted the heavy ceramic mug in his hand a few times, then drew his arm back and threw it as hard as he could, aiming carefully. His throwing arm wasn’t as sturdy or strong as it used to be, but his accuracy was still pretty good.

The mug hit the front of the mower and shattered. The thick, heavy pieces scattered in all directions, and some of them hit Tom, at least one right in the face. He jerked backward and swung his arms up to cover his face. He fell off the mower and hit the grass hard.

Something far in the back of Delbert’s mind told him to go over the fence and check on his friend, see if he was hurt. But it was gone in a flash, like a flying insect suddenly zapped by a blue-glowing bug light. Instead, Delbert smiled and nodded once with satisfaction as he watched Tom get slowly to his feet.

The riding mower idled as Tom went to the front to check for damage. He turned and glared at Delbert, upper lip pulled back over his dentures. He got back on the mower and drove it forward, still glaring at his neighbor. The mower changed course slightly so it was headed directly for Delbert.

Delbert tilted his head back and laughed as he pointed a finger at Tom.

“Oh, yeah, come and get me with your big mower!” Delbert shouted before laughing some more.

Without hesitation, Tom drove the mower over the flowers, then through the white picket fence. The fence was there for looks only, wasn’t very sturdy, and went down immediately, crunching and crackling as it splintered beneath the mower’s wheels.

Delbert stopped laughing. He didn’t think Tom would do it. But he was still coming straight for Delbert.

“Hey, Tom, hey, stop!” he shouted, holding up both hands.

The mower didn’t even slow down.

Delbert tried to walk backward, stumbled, and went down. He tried to crawl backward on his elbows, screaming, “No, stop, Tom, stop, I’m sorry!” He rolled to the left, went over on his belly, and started to get up.

The mower hit his right side and knocked him to the ground, knocked him on his back again. One wheel rolled up over Delbert’s hip.

Madge came out of the house and hurried down the porch steps. She was about to shout at Tom when something heavy and wet slapped onto the front of her body. She looked down at her white apron. It had turned a dark, dripping red.

Madge began to scream, but Delbert never heard her.

Chapter 6

W
ILLOW FELT AS IF THE DAY WERE STRETCHING ON
forever. Each class had seemed longer than the last, and every teacher seemed to speak with a slow deliberation that bordered on the absurd. Willow was sure it didn’t seem that way to anyone else, because all the students around her seemed to be having a good enough day, walking in small groups, talking, laughing, eating lunch with their friends. The day was dragging along slowly for Willow alone, it seemed, and she supposed it was her own fault for letting herself sink so low. But she couldn’t help it.

She’d seen Buffy a few times throughout the day, always in a hurry to somewhere, always preoccupied, late for class three times. That morning, Willow had assumed Buffy was probably upset, for she had heard that there were more cattle killings last night; she knew both Buffy and Giles were worried about it because it was unfamiliar to them, and therefore posed a greater danger if it was something supernatural. But as the day wore on, Willow gave up on that theory as her insides slowly clenched, first with the emotional pain she felt, then with anger. Buffy was just avoiding her, that was all, and acting the way she did — preoccupied and busy — just made it easier.

Willow was alone in the hall, outside the closed doors of classes in session. She’d just come from her American literature class after finishing a quiz. The teacher, Mrs. Youngblood, had decided a quiz would serve as a good studying tool for next week’s exams. “If you find that you are unable to answer these questions with some ease,” Mrs. Youngblood had said, “then you should increase the intensity of your studying between now and next Tuesday.” That was about the time Buffy arrived, and everything had to be explained to her. Although Willow tried, Buffy made no eye contact with her, just went straight to work on the printed-out quiz. Willow was pleased to see that the questions on the quiz posed no problem at all for her, and she finished long before everyone else. After looking over the paper, Mrs. Youngblood told her, in a whisper, that she could go.

In the hall, a door opened and Willow saw someone carrying a rolled-up poster. It was the new guidance counselor, Promila Daruwalla. Well, she wasn’t exactly new, because she’d been doing part-time work in the school’s main office for over a year. But that job had kept her pretty much invisible to the students. When the previous guidance counselor, Mr. Platt, was killed last month, Ms. Daruwalla filled in for him temporarily, until it was learned that she was fully qualified for the job, at which time she went from temporary to permanent within an afternoon.

Willow had never spoken with Mr. Platt, but Buffy had been very fond of him. Willow hadn’t met Ms. Daruwalla yet, either, and neither had anyone she knew. But she was well aware of the guidance counselor’s popularity.

Promila Daruwalla was originally from India, and she was stunningly beautiful. She was tall — five-nine, maybe taller — and looked and moved like a model, as if maybe she’d spent some time modeling in her past. Her curves and long legs, combined with skin the color of chocolate milk, thick shiny black hair that fell nearly to her waist, and a perfectly sculpted face, sent most of the male students of Sunnydale High facedown on the tile whenever she walked by. Wherever she went on the high school’s campus, Ms. Daruwalla left behind her a wake of whispered comments that ranged from affectionately admiring to shockingly obscene.

The poster Ms. Daruwalla was tacking to the cork-board just outside her office showed simply a spilled pack of cigarettes. Above was the word Think. At the bottom: Don’t Smoke.

As Willow walked by, Ms. Daruwalla’s back was to her.

“You certainly look down,” Ms. Daruwalla said a moment after Willow passed her.

Willow stopped and turned to the woman. “I’m sorry?”

“You look like someone just stole your puppy dog.” The couselor’s smile was bright and disarming. “Is everything okay?”

“Oh, uh, well, um . . .” Willow shrugged and smiled back, knowing her smile was a pale imitation of the guidance counselor’s. “Everything’s fine,” she said, nodding. Her smile fell away and her head stopped abruptly and she added, “No, um, everything’s not fine, but . . . I’ll be okay.” She smiled again, but with less conviction than before.

“If you’re not in a hurry to get somewhere, would you like to talk about it?” Her accent was slight, but gave her voice a musical quality. When Willow hesitated, Ms. Daruwalla said, “I’m free at the moment. You have nothing urgent, do you? We can have tea. I just now brewed a fresh pot.”

It was tempting. Willow had been craving someone to talk to. But if she told Ms. Daruwalla what was bothering her, she would sound exactly the way she did not want to sound: whiney and self-pitying. Of course, she didn’t have to talk about that if she didn’t want to.

“Okay,” Willow said.

The office was bright with sunshine that came in through the open blinds over the window behind a large desk. It was a very neat office, with a touch of Ms. Daruwalla’s native Indian culture in the decor. A large peacock-blue silk scarf was stretched over the surface of a sideboard to the right of the desk; beautiful gold designs that looked hand-painted curled and swirled over the scarf. On top of the scarf were some small statues, and above, on the wall, were two watercolor paintings, one of a palace, and one of some elephants wearing elaborately decorated saddles.

“Have a seat,” Ms. Daruwalla said.

Willow seated herself in a black, vinyl-upholstered chair in front of the desk as Ms. Daruwalla got two delicate-looking teacups from a cupboard, then took her seat behind the desk. There was a Mrs. Tea on one corner of the desk and the pot was full. She poured them each a cup and Willow took a sip. It was strong, but delicious.

“What has you feeling so down?” Ms. Daruwalla asked.

“Oh, well . . . lots of things, really. Nothing in particular.”

“You’ll pardon me, but I don’t know your name.”

“I’m Willow.”

“Ah, Willow Rosenberg,” Ms. Daruwalla said, her eyes brightening. “I’ve heard of you.”

Willow’s eyes widened. “You . . . you have? What, um, have you heard?”

“I have heard that you are an exceptional student. You are spoken of very highly.”

Relaxing a little, Willow said, “Oh. Well, that’s nice.”

“Of course, that sort of thing can make it difficult for people.”

A frown grew slowly on Willow’s brow. “What do you mean?”

“Once you become known as an exceptional student who always does well, it’s sometimes difficult for people to see you as anything else. It looks to them like your good grades come easily, because they usually fail to think of the work you put into getting them. This can lead them to think that everything comes easily to you, so they cease to see you as a person who has the same doubts and fears as they. But perhaps I am being presumptuous.”