Page 60 of The Salt-Black Tree
Dawn bloomed rosy over the Atlantic near Wilmington. She was making good time; Nat cracked the bottle of chocolate milk.It went down easy; plowed snow glistened, piled on either side of sanded, salted freeway. The top layers were melting, unseasonable sudden warmth bringing a treacherous coating of slush over deeper ice. A tiny thaw in January wasn’t entirely unknown, even with the polar flow dipping southward.
Driving all night didn’t make her tired. The vast soft sense of physical well-being was even deeper and eerier; mortal aches and pains had utterly vanished. She might not even have the chance to get emotionally fatigued, depending on what happened when Konets found her.
Flicking Baby between cars, dodging ahead of semis, bypassing thickened traffic with a slight mental flexing—easy, and natural as breathing. She was even taking it for granted now.
Maryland passed, a brief shot of Delaware like a tiny glass of celebratory birthday or got-a-job vodka, then over the bridge into New Jersey with the turnpike throbbing under Baby’s tires. Avoiding the clot of Philadelphia to her left, she arrowed north, her bare toes pressing the accelerator and Baby’s engine perking up like a migrating bird sensing the end of a long flight.
Before her mistress was quite ready, Baby took cloverleaf curves, circling to finally settle onto 440. Anticipation thrummed under Nat’s breastbone, answered by the car’s steady excited thrum.
She was almost home.
THE RETURN
THE BUCK, STOPPED
To go through Staten Island without worrying about mortal traffic was a luxury she might never get used to; Nat caught herself fretting about where to park Baby and had to laugh, gripping the steering wheel so hard her knuckles were bloodless.
New York looked different when you were driving. Winter sunshine glittered sharply on ice-scalloped buildings, glowed on snow tainted with car exhaust and a million mortal exhalations, limned the puff-breaths of hurrying pedestrians with gold. Horns blared, buses heaved past, trucks rumbled. The city greeted her with afuck ya how ya doin, won’t ask where ya been,and Nat’s eyes blurred with unshed saltwater as street corners and vistas became more and more familiar.
Finally, a few blocks from Fort Greene Park, Baby jolted aside like a leaping fish, a silvery scalegleam running down her painted sides. It wasn’t quite a parking space—for one thing, her hindquarters were blocking an alley with just enough clearance for a sanitation truck to heave itself into—but she wasn’t a mortal vehicle, and in any case wouldn’t be there long.
Friendly might come by to write out a parking ticket. If he did, Nat might teach him a lesson or two.
She pushed the gear lever into park and stretched—rolling her head from side to side, arching her spine, pointing her toes on either side of the brake pedal. A yawn caught her by surprise.Even a divinity could get mild stiffness from a long drive. Maybe it was merely psychological, but the end result was the same.
She could, she supposed, open up the trunk and get a pair of shoes out of Marisol’s suitcases—no, Nat’s suitcases now. That would mean getting out barefoot, and even a new-minted incarnation of a season might not want to waltz around Big Apple sidewalks without at least a pair of sneakers.
It wouldn’t matter to the Cold Lady, and Nat had driven all this way with her toes al fresco. But she closed her eyes, concentrating, and asked politely.
The world, after all,wantedto obey.
When her lids drifted back up, a pair of brand-new green espadrilles sat neatly in the passenger seat. She slipped them on, watching people hurry past on the sidewalk. They didn’t even glance at Baby; a meter maid happening by wouldn’t see the blue car.
It was nice to be ignored, but only if you wanted to be.
She wasn’t going to feel the cold, but she reached into the back seat anyway. Leo’s old peacoat was there, heavy and comfortable; she patted Baby’s dash and glanced habitually over her shoulder, checking traffic before opening the door.
The wind wasn’t as knife-sharp as she expected. A radio blared from a bodega’s open cigarette window; women hurried by with their heads down and their purses tucked hard against their sides. A man in a beret walking an Afghan hound glanced incuriously past Nat; his dog’s great sad eyes lingered longer.
“I suppose you’ll find somewhere to wait.” She patted Baby’s door, and the car purred in response. “I’ll call when I need you. Keep the suitcases safe for me.”
By the time she reached the end of the block, Baby was gone. Nat took a right, her stride lengthening, hands deep in the peacoat’s pockets. One fingertip touched plastic; she drew the tortoiseshell sunglasses free.
Funny, she didn’t remember sticking them in there. Sheopened their arms, and settled the shades like a headband again. They felt right, nestled in her hair.
No mortal glanced at her; Nat’s reflection in passing windows was no more or less odd than anyone else’s. Brooklyn throbbed just like an engine; she crossed against the light, her heart giving a familiar, fearful, entirely mortal leap when a wine-red Buick whooshed past, its passage ruffling her skirt.
Nat thrust her hands deeper into familiar woolen warmth, a pill of shed fabric under one fingertip. Midblock, she turned hard right again, and the tiny courtyard before the Laurelgrove swallowed her.
The Christmas tree was gone from the foyer. A janitor balanced on a step stool was taking down foil letters shoutingHappy New Year,and Nat realized the faint sour smell wasn’t just hospital disinfectant but a collective citywide hangover swirling down the drains.
This city partied hard for any renewal at all. You had to admire the dedication, the belief in not just any future but the most shining version of it. Maybe that’s what Jay lived on, and green-clad Daisy too.
Nat didn’t have to sign in, show ID—not that she had any, Dmitri still held her backpack—or make self-deprecating jokes, gauge the expression of every nurse hurrying by in sensible shoes. She didn’t have to smile apologetically at white-coated doctors, or step aside for even the lowliest orderly. The mortal world simply flowed around her, a river barely rippling past a smooth rock.
She half expected another patient to be in the familiar room. Maybe it was a gift or, more likely, a simple coincidence that it was empty. The bed was neatly made, waiting for the next inhabitant; the sealed window panted a bright sunshine square on the pink-cushioned bench underneath. The bathroom door was slightly open, white tile bleached and glowing as usual.
The only thing missing was Maria Drozdova in her silken bedjacket, her hair neatly braided under a bright kerchief.Have you gone yet? Have you seen Baba?
