Page 17 of The Children of Eve (Charlie Parker #22)

CHAPTER XVII

Many miles to the east, in a Virginia town unloved even by those who lived there, or perhaps by them most of all, Harriet Swisher woke to find her husband, Hul, absent from their bed, the sound of the wind replacing his soft snoring. She immediately began to worry. The Swishers were both in their seventies, but Hul was in poorer health than his wife, and Harriet spent more time fretting about him than he did about her, even if she suspected he might well outlive her, ornery cuss that he was.

But what would he do without her? She buttered his toast every morning and laid out his jammies on the comforter last thing at night, had done since the day after their wedding. He rarely made a decision without first consulting her, and while he didn’t always agree with her point of view, he’d take time to consider what she’d said, which was more than most men she knew did when presented with a woman’s opinion—and probably most men she didn’t know, too.

Sometimes, Harriet feared Hul might manage better in her absence than she and everyone else believed, because husbands could be frustrating that way, strategically incompetent until they could afford to be no longer. After she was dead, Hul might well discover previously untapped abilities to butter his toast, lay out his jammies, and make sensible decisions without her input. But should he suddenly begin dating some local jade a month after the funeral, she’d come back from the grave to haunt him, she swore she would. He and his tramp wouldn’t know a moment’s peace.

Harriet called out to him.

“Hul? Where are you?”

Nobody addressed him by Hurrel, his given name, not since his mother had gone to her reward back when Reagan was president. His middle name was John, but for reasons lost to history he didn’t care to be known by that either, so most everyone knew him as Jack. Except to Harriet he didn’t look like a Jack Swisher, which for her evoked connotations of rakery, even homosexuality. At the very least, it brought to mind someone who wore two-tone shoes and smelled of scents stored behind drugstore counters, which was not her man. He was tall and robust, with a handsome, weathered face, and smelled of nothing more exotic than Aqua Velva. Over the years, she had contracted Hurrel to Hul, which meant his gravestone, when the day came, would be crowded with letters: Hurrel “Hul” John “Jack” Swisher. Jesus, people would think three or four people were buried down there. If he did predecease her, she’d try to cut a deal with the stonemason for a discount. But she didn’t want to outlive him. What would she do without him?

Harriet listened for the hum of the exhaust fan in the bathroom, which came on with the light, but no noise was heard.

Christ , she thought, what if he’s fallen?

She got out of bed, eased her feet into her slippers, and put on her robe. The room was icy because the cost of heating oil had soared. Harriet blamed the Russians, while Hul blamed the Democrats, if only because he voted Republican and didn’t know any Russians. Whoever was at fault, the Swishers now dressed in layers and slept under extra bedding, and the recent welcome influx of funds hadn’t altered those habits. They might be glad of the money down the line, and frittering it away on heating when they had sweaters and blankets to spare didn’t make much sense now that spring was coming. It helped that, the vagaries of old age apart, they were both of pioneer stock. Harriet could live with her twinges, and as for Hul, well, a battle with neck cancer a few years previously, and the radiation treatment required to tackle it, had damaged his thyroid, so he was more likely to complain about being too hot than the opposite.

Harriet stepped into the hallway and let out a yelp of surprise. Hul was standing before the oxeye window immediately to her left, with his back to her and his right hand raised.

“You about scared the life from me,” she said.

“Hush.”

“Don’t you hush me! What are you doing, standing out here in the dead of night?”

He turned to her, and she saw the look of puzzlement on his face.

“Can’t you hear it?” he asked.

“Hear what?”

“Just listen.”

Harriet did.

“I don’t hear anything,” she said, after five seconds or so had gone by. “What am I supposed to be listening for?”

He lowered his hand, and she took it. Rarely did they remain in proximity for long before one of them reached for the other. It was why their marriage had endured without offspring to bond them.

“A child. A girl.”

“A child? Where?”

“I didn’t see her, only heard her.”

“What was she doing?”

“Speaking, but it wasn’t any language I recognized.”

Harriet held her breath for fear that whatever sound had drawn him out here was so faint that she might have missed it the first time around.

“No,” she said at last. “There’s nothing.”

She hoped he wasn’t succumbing to Alzheimer’s. He’d been growing more forgetful over the past year or so, certainly since the cancer, but then he’d always been absentminded. Even when he was in his prime, one of her daily tasks was to ensure he wore matching shoes and his fly was zipped before he left the house.

“Let’s go back to bed.”

She tried to lead him away but he didn’t follow. He raised his left hand as high as his ear and tilted his head.

“There!” he said. “Do you hear it?”

“I told you, I don’t hear anything.”

It was a lie, but a white one. There might have been something, if she chose to listen, but she elected not to.

“At first, I thought I was imagining it,” said Hul, “but it’s her.”

“Don’t talk foolishness.”

“We ought not to have consented to it,” said Hul, which was just like him. He had many good points, but some lesser ones too, among them the habit of being wise after the fact. But then he qualified what he’d said: “Splitting the children up like that.”

“It’s too late for regrets,” said Harriet. “What’s done is done, and half the money’s already spent. You weren’t so contrite when the roof was being fixed.”

She was still clinging to his hand, even while they bickered. Such a pair we are .

Against her better judgment, Harriet decided to yield some ground, or else she might never get him back to bed. If this was madness, she could only hope it was the passing kind.

“If it is her, she’ll get tired soon enough. All children do. And she has company.”

“The boy’s different,” said Hul. “I think he might be retarded.”

“There’s nothing we can do about it now.” Harriet squeezed her husband’s hand. “Come on, we can’t stay out here all night. We’ll catch our deaths.”

She tugged, and he followed. They were on the threshold of their bedroom when Hul paused for the final time.

“I think they’re names,” he said. “She’s calling out names.”

“What names?”

“The names of gods.”