Page 44 of The Salt-Black Tree
“I think your car knows how to park itself.” Nat shrugged again, half-turned, and walked away. When she reached the blue chariot she drew her fingers lightly over its enameled hood, a caress fit to make any man blind-jealous.
It was easy. A snap of his fingers like breaking a rich man’s bone or a traitor’s neck, a screech of smoking rubber, a crumple-clatter of angry metal, and the black car vanished into the thiefways until he wanted it again, only the imprint of its tires pressed heavily on roadside gravel. He lit another cigarette as he ambled for the passenger door of Spring’s blue conveyance, ready to hop contemptuously aside if she gave one of Maria’s tinkling-ice laughs and gunned the engine.
Baby growled once more, but the door was unlocked. He settled on a leather bench seat, eyeing the dash, and Nat’s familiar backpack was in the back, prim as a beloved pet. Mortal nylon, fake leather, and plastic zipper had taken on a deep gloss; it was no longer a schoolgirl’s desperate little bag but a traveler’s trusty companion, quite capable of biting any stray hand brushing too close. That zipper would turn to flint shards, and the thing might keep chewing until its owner decided a petty thief had learned a lesson—or lost enough of their flesh.
Not that he’d stoop to pawing through her belongings at the moment. Dima made himself comfortable, rolling the window down and exhaling a cloud of perfumed smoke while the Drozdova buckled her antique seat belt, worked the old-fashioned gear lever so the orange bar pointed toD, and checked over her shoulder for nonexistent mortal traffic, her honey hair moving over her shoulders with soft lovely whispers.
“I’m not traveling the, uh, the divinity way.” Was she nervous? Brittle new self-confidence was almost as alluring as former softanxiety. The juxtaposition was even fetching, in its own way. “But Baby goes fast enough even for you, I think.”
He could have sniffed, made a cutting little observation, or even observed a stony silence. But Dima found he didn’t have the taste for any of those options. “Well then,” he said, stretching out his legs—plenty of room, you couldn’t improve on old-fashioned American heavy metal. “Show me, Drozdova.”
The dimple came back, peeking at him, and Baby lunged into motion.
FRAGILE TRUCE
A velvet-soft southern night swallowed a blue car, full of long stretches of almost-companionable silence interspersed with commonplace observations—Abilene is nice town, I drove through Oakland, glad we aren’t going through Dallas, my mom watched reruns of that show, there was crazy rube in that town once, you want some snacks, no I’m fine I got smokes—mixed with the heavy incense of the gangster’s cigarettes. Nat even tried one as they skirted Waco, and Dima’s laugh as her nose wrinkled at the pleasant numbing burn was, for once, not mocking.
Maybe he was just being polite in another divinity’s car, or he was tired of driving. He taught her how to flick her fingertips at tollbooths, passing through ghostlike while a mortal yawned or rubbed at their eyes, and watched while Baby blinked through traffic, eventually nodding his slick dark head and taking a long drag.Not bad, Drozdova. Like you been driving for years.
It was unexpectedly satisfying to hear, even if he was lying.
He leaned forward every once in a while to peer at the sky; between cities there were long stretches of deep black lit only by diamond fires peeking through thin-torn veils of scudding cloud. Nat saw the Milky Way for the first time on a long stretch near the Texas-Louisiana border, a skyriver of milk hemmed by trees and reflected in still water.
Dima pointed at distant lightning in the direction of theGulf, told her the Alamo was a lot smaller than you’d think, said the music scene in Austin was worth catching, and spoke about Spanish moss when the trees thickened and blotted out the sky. The humidity rose, and even though it was past Christmas—or so he told her, she’d lost days somewhere—there were strings of lights in unexpected places and the night was warm.
After Baton Rouge’s bright, painful throbbing in wet darkness he turned silent for a long while, smoking and gazing out his window. The sound of the slipstream was different here, and the fecund marsh-smell it carried made Nat’s scalp tingle. Her hair was developing a life of its own; she hadn’t bothered to comb in what felt like forever.
Maybe pretty someday,her mother had always said, forcing Nat to sit still for pixie cuts until the end of middle school.But curly hair means curly mind, Natchenka.
It had been one of her few disobediences, growing her mane during high school as the idea of saving up and moving out took root. Was that when Maria had started to get tired, fatigued, ill?
Gray dawn found them deep in the Maurepas, and the greens here were different than in the Northwest—juicier, teeming, warmer. Veils of hoary moss hung still and sullen, mirrorlike water bloomed with algae, and tree roots straddled empty arches where their fallen ancestors had rotted to provide nutrients. Scrub clustered the freeway’s skirts, a thin thread of solid ground spooling through a waterlogged, treacherous shifting probably holding a few divinities of its own. Or at least so Nat thought, aware of the steady hum of bursting life pouring through the car windows along with the reek of rot and decay. Like Dima said, you couldn’t have one without the other.
Long drives probably made anyone philosophical.
The freeway curved sharply south, an ocean of heavy salt-fish fog catching Baby in long streaming fingers before swallowing her whole, and signs began announcing New Orleans’s approach. Finally, Dima stirred. “Elysium in the city.” He’drolled his window mostly up and still spoke softly, serious and reflective instead of mocking and nasty. “Stay there today. Come sunset, we go to party.”
“Do we…”Do we really have time for that?
“The lady you want, she don’t come out by day.” This new aspect of the gangster god was actually pleasant, unless it was another trap. “Besides, you dress up again. Nice for Dima.”
“I’m not visiting another Coco.” Nat rolled her head from one side to another, stretching her neck. “I think Marisol packed me something.”
“She give her gifts, yes, but only when you right in front of her. The instant you gone,poof, she forget.” He cracked his long flexible fingers, knuckle by knuckle, muffled gunshots. “Must’ve liked you, though. Little sister and all.”
A few days ago Nat might have felt compelled to defend Summer verbally. But now… well, maybe he was right. Marisol had, after all, known about Mom’s plan well ahead of time.
Everyone had. Probably even Leo. Families only had secrets if you willfully ignored the obvious after reaching adulthood.
Funny, how she’d never really thought of herself asadultbefore.
“Thing I can’t figure out,” Dima continued, still in that meditative tone, “is why your mama didn’t give you car. She had one, not from Marisol,da?”
“An old one.” Nat could have laughed at the idea of the arthritic, hearse-like Léon-Bollée attempting this kind of journey. “Very old.” Leo was always fixing it, tinkering for hours while Maria was in hospice and Nat was at work…
“Still.” The gangster glanced at her, returned his gaze to the window. Dense, wet vapor drenched every surface, hung in the air, and turned gold for a brief moment. Somewhere behind the curtain the sun had lifted itself above the horizon, piercing all the groundclouds. “Not like her to let someone else drive you. Especially Dima.”
I could have made it run.Sudden knowledge struck, quick as Georgia’s leathery-tanned hands. The old woman’s nails hadn’t broken Nat’s skin, but she still felt them, prickling-warm.Maybe it would even repair itself, the way Baby did, or how the house kept itself together with me there.
