Free [Oxrun Station] The Last Call of Mourning by Charles L. Grant Page B

conventions of courtesy and form; but she kept her hands still, clasped tightly in her lap. Either the move would be misunderstood, or it would be the trigger. And that she would not do to the boy/man before her.
    "It doesn't make any sense," Sandy said, poking at the cup's handle, taking deep breaths that were released in spasms.
    "It never does," Ed said. He rose after a moment, yanking up his jacket's zipper, and stood behind him, tugging at the chair's back. "Come on, Sandy, I'll drive you home. I don't think I'm needed here anyway, not now." He looked over the boy's head at Cyd, who nodded, rose herself and walked them to the door. "I'll be in touch," he whispered as he walked outside.
    Sandy turned around once on the patio, the light from the kitchen pinning him to the night. "I'm sorry, Miss Yarrow. I just wanted to do something. I just wanted to hit somebody, that's all. I'm sorry."
    She knew there should have been words for her to say to act as a balm, but she could not find them. She only lifted a hand in farewell instead, and watched them vanish beyond the reach of the light. Then she turned slowly back to the room, her right hand jumping into a fist when she saw her mother standing in the doorway. The peasant blouse had been pulled up over her shoulders, and one curl of grey dangled unbecomingly over her forehead. Her face had grown taut, so much so that her lower lip quivered until she touched a finger to it briefly without losing her scowl.
    "What were they doing here?"
    Cyd pointed mutely at the cups on the table, too startled by Myrtle's sudden appearance to say anything immediately.
    Myrtle sniffed, raising her head slightly to jut out her chin. "I don't like that boy," she said, then moved into the room and walked quickly to a cupboard from which she fetched a tin of China tea. "He tries to stir up trouble for your father and me. Talks around the town like we're crazy of something."
    "He misses his grandfather," Cyd said, surprising herself that she automatically took the boy's defense.
    "Nonsense." Myrtle spun the tin in her hands, held it tightly and tapped a long nail against its lid. "Well, I suppose that's true enough. But he says things he shouldn't. Wallace McLeod, he was old, Cynthia, very old. He wasn't as strong as he liked people to believe, the way he used to be at any rate. We couldn't keep him, that's all. Even if we could have afforded him, we couldn't keep him. I hope that's clear. Even—"
    "All right, Mother, all right! He's just a boy, for heaven's sake. You'd think he'd been trying to steal the family treasure or something."
    Myrtle opened her mouth to retort, apparently thought better of it and hurried to the door. At the threshold she stopped and glanced back at the table. "You invite him?"
    Cyd had no answer.
    Myrtle smiled. Coldly. "If you're going to stay inside, dear, you'd better take off that sweater. You'll catch your death. You are going to stay in, aren't you?"
    She nodded.
    He mother nodded, as if the response were one that should be rewarded. "Well ... as long as you're not going to prowl around anymore, I don't suppose you'd want to . . ."She lifted her shoulders in not quite a shrug.
    "No, Mother, I would not. Once is enough, believe me. You grab the little creep yourself, make Father jealous. You know, sometimes I think he takes you and all that you do for granted. Why don't you let the doctor sneak you off to his clinic? It'll do Father good to get shaken now and then."
    "Darling, the one thing your father does not do is take me for granted." Her smile was broad, quick, hung in the air long after she had left, as false as the statement that had caused it to spring.
    "I don't believe that for a minute, Mother," she muttered to herself as she began to clean the cups from the table. And for the first few minutes she kept her mind clear as she emptied the chocolate into the sink, filled the pan and cups with hot water for soaking. But as she wiped a damp cloth over the table,