Free Burnt Offerings (Valancourt 20th Century Classics) by Stephen Graham Jones, Robert Marasco Page B

her fingers. “Bring him this way, into the kitchen.”
    Their voices, the rasp and rattle back, were filled with concern.
    “He’s all right,” Ben said. “Aren’t you, Dave?”
    “I fell on the rocks,” he said to Marian where all the sympathy seemed to be. She had taken out a Kleenex and was wiping his elbows, wincing along with him.
    “I told you,” she said to Ben, “he shouldn’t have been left alone.”
    “An accident, that’s all,” Brother said, leaning forward to see. “Roz here’s got a first-aid kit. Go get it.”
    “C’mon, Dave, alley-oop!” Ben lifted him and Marian grabbed his hand. “What’s a few cuts, after all?” He held him tight and moved toward the door to hurry Miss Allardyce.
    “It hurts, ” David cried.
    And Marian said, for Ben as well, “I know, baby, I know.”
    They followed Miss Allardyce out of the room, leaving Brother who heard Marian say, “I’m sorry,” to Roz, “we should’ve been more careful.”
    Brother waited until the voices disappeared and then wheeled closer to the window, pulling his robe closed at the neck. Light was moving above the water like a nimbus, blinding him to the opposite shore. In a while, something shuffled behind him.
    “What’s all the hubbub?” Walker asked.
    Brother didn’t turn. They were perfect, the woman especially; a natural. “Boy got hurt,” he said to Walker.
    “Serious?”
    “He’ll live.”
    Walker came to the window. He stopped beside a pedestal supporting a large gardenia plant.
    “They takin’ the house?” he asked casually.
    Brother shrugged. Of course they’d take it. He’d never been wrong yet. “We’ll see,” he said.
    Walker lifted the plant which was stiff, brown, and leafless.
    Brother turned his head. “Where’re you goin’ with that plant?”
    “Out to the car.”
    “Why?”
    He nodded in the direction of the door. “Whozis said it was dead.”
    “Did she?” Brother faced the bay. “Look again,” he said.
    The base of the plant, just above the powdery soil, was a pale green, and above it, on a dead branch, were two fresh shoots.
    Walker looked at Brother’s back, then at the plant again, reexamining it. “Now ain’t that somethin’,” he said.

(4)
    The wounds, once Ben had cleaned them, were slight; and although it was Marian who had shown the most concern (so much so that she could barely remember the kitchen afterwards, except that it was huge and bright and wonderfully old-fashioned, with everything double-sized), it was Ben who urged them out to the car, saying, “I think we better get the chief here home.”
    “He’ll be just fine, won’t you, sonny?” Miss Allardyce said. “Heck, any boy who can survive New York City . . .”
    Marian put her arm around his shoulders and squeezed him protectively. He was no longer wearing his wounded expression; the patched knee and elbows were evidence enough. “He just has to get used to the country,” she said to him.
    “Well, there’ll be plenty of time for that,” Miss Allardyce said. She reached into a box and pulled out a chocolate chip cookie. Ben was signalling Marian, indicating the door impatiently. “In a minute!” she gestured.
    David tried to bite into the cookie, made a face, and then held it out to Marian distastefully. “It’s like a rock,” he said.
    “Probably stale,” Miss Allardyce said with a sigh, “like everything else around here. Throw it out.”
    Ben was holding the kitchen door open. “Let’s go, Dave,” he said, addressing Marian. When she passed him she slapped his arm and whispered, “Why are you in such a hurry?”
    Miss Allardyce turned and pointed to a passageway beside the kitchen. “Servants’ wing’s through there,” she said; “unused, needless to say, except for the old fool. Laundry room, pantry, sewing room, and whatever else you can think of.” She took Marian’s arm and led her back to the entrance hall. Ben had slipped past them, joining David who was limping toward