kept you secluded, didn’t they? How selfish. Don’t we know, Mother, how selfish that would be for someone like Stella?”
“Alone,” his mother said, and abruptly turned and set the bottle down on the small table beside the candle. She rubbed her hands on her apron and waddled down the hallway. The combined sweetness of candle and Nehi threatened to make Stella dizzy. She had seen dogs whining to be with other dogs, to sniff them and exchange doggy greetings. That memory brought her up short.
She thought of the two men in the Texaco minimart.
You smell as good as a dog.
She shivered.
“Your parents were protecting you, but it was still cruel,” Trinket said, watching her. Stella kept her eyes on the hallway. The wish that had haunted her for weeks now, months if she thought back that far, was suddenly strong in her, making her dull and steepy.
“Not to be with your own kind, not to bathe in the air of another, and not to speak the way you all do, such lovely doubling, that is painfully lonely-making, isn’t it?”
Her cheeks felt hot. Trinket studied her cheeks. “Your people are so beautiful,” he said, his eyes going soft. “I could watch you all day.”
“Why?” Stella asked sharply.
“Beg pardon?” Trinket smiled, and this time there was something in the smile that was wrong. Stella did not like being the center of attention. But she wanted to meet the others, more than anything on Earth or in the heavens, as Mitch’s father might have said.
Stella’s grandfather, Sam, had died five years ago.
“I do not run an accredited school, nor a day care, nor a center of learning,” Trinket said. “I try to teach what I can, but mostly I—Mother and I—create a brief refuge, away from the cruel people who hate and fear. We neither hate nor fear. We admire. In my way, I’m an anthropologist.”
“Can I meet them now?” Stella asked.
Trinket sat on the couch with a radiant grin. “Tell me more about your mother and father. They’re well known in some circles. Your mother discovered the virus, right? And your father found the famous mummies in the Alps. The harbingers of our own fate.”
The sweet scents in the room blocked some human odors, but not aggression, not fear. Those she would still be able to smell, like a steel spoon stuck in vanilla ice cream. Trinket did not smell mean or fearful, so she did not feel she was in immediate danger. Still, he wore nose plugs. And how did he know so much about Kaye and Mitch?
Trinket leaned forward on the couch and touched his nostrils. “You’re worried about these.”
Stella turned away. “Let me see the others,” she said.
Trinket snorted a laugh. “I can’t be in a crowd of you without these,” Trinket said. “I’m sensitive, oh yes. I had a daughter like you. My wife and I acquired the masks and knew the special scents my daughter made. Then, my wife died. She died in pain.” He stared at the ceiling, his eyes wet pools of sentiment. “I miss her,” Trinket said, and slapped his hand suddenly on the bolster of the couch. “Mother!”
The blank-faced woman returned.
“See if they’ve finished their lunch,” Trinket said. “Then let’s introduce Stella.”
“Will she eat?” the older woman asked, her eyes unconcerned either way.
“I don’t know. That depends,” Fred Trinket said. He looked at his watch. “I hope your parents haven’t lost their way. Maybe you should call them . . . in a few minutes, just to make sure?”
17
K aye pulled the Toyota truck to the side of the rutted dirt road and dropped her head onto the wheel. The rain had stopped, but they had nearly gotten their wheels stuck in mud several times. She moaned.
Mitch threw open the door. “This is the road. This is the address. Shit!”
He flung the crumpled piece of paper into a wet ditch. The only house here had been boarded up for a long time, and half of it had slumped into cinders after a fire. Five or six acres of weed-grown farm ground
“Alone,” his mother said, and abruptly turned and set the bottle down on the small table beside the candle. She rubbed her hands on her apron and waddled down the hallway. The combined sweetness of candle and Nehi threatened to make Stella dizzy. She had seen dogs whining to be with other dogs, to sniff them and exchange doggy greetings. That memory brought her up short.
She thought of the two men in the Texaco minimart.
You smell as good as a dog.
She shivered.
“Your parents were protecting you, but it was still cruel,” Trinket said, watching her. Stella kept her eyes on the hallway. The wish that had haunted her for weeks now, months if she thought back that far, was suddenly strong in her, making her dull and steepy.
“Not to be with your own kind, not to bathe in the air of another, and not to speak the way you all do, such lovely doubling, that is painfully lonely-making, isn’t it?”
Her cheeks felt hot. Trinket studied her cheeks. “Your people are so beautiful,” he said, his eyes going soft. “I could watch you all day.”
“Why?” Stella asked sharply.
“Beg pardon?” Trinket smiled, and this time there was something in the smile that was wrong. Stella did not like being the center of attention. But she wanted to meet the others, more than anything on Earth or in the heavens, as Mitch’s father might have said.
Stella’s grandfather, Sam, had died five years ago.
“I do not run an accredited school, nor a day care, nor a center of learning,” Trinket said. “I try to teach what I can, but mostly I—Mother and I—create a brief refuge, away from the cruel people who hate and fear. We neither hate nor fear. We admire. In my way, I’m an anthropologist.”
“Can I meet them now?” Stella asked.
Trinket sat on the couch with a radiant grin. “Tell me more about your mother and father. They’re well known in some circles. Your mother discovered the virus, right? And your father found the famous mummies in the Alps. The harbingers of our own fate.”
The sweet scents in the room blocked some human odors, but not aggression, not fear. Those she would still be able to smell, like a steel spoon stuck in vanilla ice cream. Trinket did not smell mean or fearful, so she did not feel she was in immediate danger. Still, he wore nose plugs. And how did he know so much about Kaye and Mitch?
Trinket leaned forward on the couch and touched his nostrils. “You’re worried about these.”
Stella turned away. “Let me see the others,” she said.
Trinket snorted a laugh. “I can’t be in a crowd of you without these,” Trinket said. “I’m sensitive, oh yes. I had a daughter like you. My wife and I acquired the masks and knew the special scents my daughter made. Then, my wife died. She died in pain.” He stared at the ceiling, his eyes wet pools of sentiment. “I miss her,” Trinket said, and slapped his hand suddenly on the bolster of the couch. “Mother!”
The blank-faced woman returned.
“See if they’ve finished their lunch,” Trinket said. “Then let’s introduce Stella.”
“Will she eat?” the older woman asked, her eyes unconcerned either way.
“I don’t know. That depends,” Fred Trinket said. He looked at his watch. “I hope your parents haven’t lost their way. Maybe you should call them . . . in a few minutes, just to make sure?”
17
K aye pulled the Toyota truck to the side of the rutted dirt road and dropped her head onto the wheel. The rain had stopped, but they had nearly gotten their wheels stuck in mud several times. She moaned.
Mitch threw open the door. “This is the road. This is the address. Shit!”
He flung the crumpled piece of paper into a wet ditch. The only house here had been boarded up for a long time, and half of it had slumped into cinders after a fire. Five or six acres of weed-grown farm ground
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