Free Poppy Z. Brite - 1992 - Lost Souls by Poppy Z. Brite Page B

said Christian, and tasted the sour blood again.
                 “She
was my daughter,” said Wallace.
                 Christian
swallowed. He was suddenly thirsty. “And she just disappeared?” he asked.
                 “Didn’t
you call the police?”
                 “I
didn’t, no. Jessy was wild.” For a moment Wallace’s face was a Mardi Gras mask
of tragedy; then he put his hand over his eyes, frowned his tears away, and
went on. “She was forever threatening to leave home, saying I didn’t give her
enough money, saying I was dull. She liked to go out and drink. She was angry
because I made her continue with school when she wanted to drop out. She didn’t
seem to care about anything …certainly not her father.”
                 Wallace
covered his eyes again. “A girl needs her mother, I think, and Lydia—my
wife—died when Jessy was only five. Suicide, a sin. I brought our daughter up
myself, and did a poor job, I suppose. When Jessy disappeared, I thought she
had run off with a boy. I hoped she would come back when his money was gone.
She had such strange notions…such very strange notions… and sending the police
after her would have made her hate me.”
                 “Why
are you here now?” Christian couldn’t look at Wallace’s eyes. He stared at the
silver cross, at the soft loose skin of the man’s throat behind it.
                 “Well
… after Jessy left, I moved all her things to the attic. When I realized she
wasn’t coming back, I hated to look at them. Recently I happened to think of
them, and I wondered whether her old clothes might be good enough to give to my
church group. They hold a yearly bazaar for the poor, you know.” Christian
nodded. “While I was going through the boxes, I found an old diary. The entries
mentioned you several times—and your bar. She seemed to have…feelings for you.
I thought she might have told you where she was going. I’d so love to see her
now.”
                 “I
don’t know,” said Christian. “She only drank here. She didn’t talk to me. I’ve
no idea where she went.” He realized that he was still staring at the crucifix
and dropped his gaze to Wallace’s empty glass.
                 Wallace
gave a heavy sigh. “I’ll have another,” he said. He stayed to drink two more
whiskeys, getting drunker, wandering around the bar. He examined the
stained-glass window and its blind twin, the tables scarred with cryptic
patterns of initials and beer-rings, the worn crimson leather of the bar
stools. From time to time he glanced back at Christian, who silently avoided
his eyes.
                 When
Wallace began staring at the door that led to the staircase and, beyond that,
to Christian’s room, Christian picked up his rag and started wiping down the
bar.
                 “I’m
closing up. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you with your problem.” His voice was
sharper than he had meant it to be.
                 When
Wallace was gone–he left with a quiet, swaying dignity—and the door locked
after him, Christian turned to his rows of bottles and found a squat embossed
bottle nearly full of luminous green liqueur. No one wanted Chartreuse, not
anymore, but Christian always kept a few bottles of it in case Molochai, Twig,
and Zillah came rolling into town some Mardi Gras night. They would want
Chartreuse, Christian knew. Tonight he wanted it too. He wanted the swirling
heaviness of alcohol to weigh his mind down, wanted to sleep deep and
dreamlessly, with no phantoms to swim out of the recesses of memory, no thin
little girls with shadowed eyes and thighs bloody from murderous, innocent
birth.
                 Could
he?
                 Christian
uncapped the bottle and started to pour himself a shot. His hand paused over
the glass, bony and white, cold on the cold bottle. He smelled the liqueur. A
scent