2: Empire Decayed,but also an excerpt (in which Zebulon settles in… the suburbs?)
to tide readers over until the book finally hits shelves later this year.
The April day was cloudless enough that sunlight dumped straight down, squashing all shadow.
I felt a pinch in my cheeks.
Was it a smile?
The sprinklers, I am obligated to mention, also hissed like snakes.
On Mulberry Terrace, we stopped before a rectilinear domicile like any other except painted a sinister cherry pink.
I clung to the seatwas any color more threatening?
After a solid minute of paralysis the driver cleared his throat and I handed over the cash.
He was careful not to touch my hand when he took it.
He drove away, going twice as fast now, stranding me on the curb.
In his wake, birds chirped.
Radio soap operas blabbered.
Somewhere, a baby laughed.
This was no Nazi Germany, but I felt almost as lost inside it.
The pinkness disoriented me, but there was a railing to grip.
I prepared my knuckles for knocking before spying beside the door a big silver button.
Instead, four chimes rang inside the house: the Westminster Quarters, familiar from my youthful churchgoings.
Hold onwere the suburbs theistic enclaves?
I took a step back, scanned for the taxi, considered running.
The door flew wide.
Mrs. Shirley White was younger than anticipated.
It was in moderate disarray; a lock had caught in the string of pearls tight around her neck.
She wiped her hands on it, streaking flour.
Her eyes bounced away from me after only a second.
Shed been warned about my appearance.
Mr. Gray, is it?
Was that the name Id chosen?
All this color, I couldnt think.
Joe Gray, confirmed I.
How do you do.
She did not extend her hand for shaking.
Her eyes skittered down the lane, as if concerned we might be spotted.
Come in, sit down.
Can I get you a cup of Nescafe?
I shielded my eyes, staggered, found a chair, collapsed into it.
But constructed in what kind of delirium?
The checkerboard floors were pink.
The curtains were pink.
The refrigerator was pink.
Soda bottles jingled and plastic-wrapped jellies quivered.
The sink roared to hellish life with the snicking whirlwind of a thousand sharp teeth.
I detected a scent.
Whites cig winked red.
I dont know how much they told you, said she.
Only that you have an available room.
Nothing personal, but this isnt a charity situation.
I indicated the suitcase.
I am able to pay.
But I want to be up front with you, Mr. Gray.
I have somewell, hesitations.
But youre a single man.
I cant have any trouble here.
I have two children, you know.
They barely understand what happened to their father.
Its been less than a year.
Through a merlon of expelled smoke, she dared a longer look.
I believed that she felt relief.
I lifted my cup and considered the anemic beige bilge.
Whatdidhappen to Mr. White, if I may ask?
She snugged her cig between her knuckles and with the same hand brought her cup to red-painted lips.
Smoke and steam braided.
It was apparent that no further details were in the offing, and for that I was grateful.
So what it is you do, Mr. Gray?
Id had half the country to concoct a clever cover.
I am a writer, proclaimed I.
She ashed, squinted, studied.
Are you one of those men who writes about war?
What it means and all that?
Id studied the book racks each time I stopped for a twenty-cent tank of gasoline.
Of course Id read not a single published line from these literary lions.
You have it exactly right, said I. I set down the coffee cup with finality.
Careful, snapped she.
Youll dent the Formica.
