I said, “You know, I’m right here.”
“Oh, yes, absolutely,” Bridget said. “That’s what I like so much about you. You’re always right here, in the moment, never lost in yourself and off somewhere. That’s a rare quality these days. We just met this morning, but I feel like I met you two years ago.”
Sparky recognized the moment when I began to adapt to the high weirdness of our situation, when my perplexity began to mellow into a kind of delightful amazement. He shifted from being a cheerleader for romance to being a substitute father with the usual concerns. His brow corrugated. His gray gaze grew flinty. “You realize, Quinn, that there can be no marriage until we understand this wild river we’re in, run whatever rapids must be run, and reach calm water.”
I shaped my face into that of a responsible suitor with only chivalrous intentions, which in fact was the truth. “Of course.”
“And until there is a wedding, there will be no hanky-panky.”
Bridget appeared to be amused. But she also sounded as sincere as a stick in the eye when she said, “None. As Daphne Larkrise has written, ‘Delayed gratification leads to greater satisfaction.’”
“Quinn?” Sparky said.
“Yeah. Yes. I feel the same.” When he continued to skewer me with his stare, I said, “Remember, I was raised by nuns.”
“Oh, I remember. Just so you don’t forget.”
I said, “It’s not a thing you forget if you don’t want to spend a week peeling potatoes.”
That was when the monsters arrived.
|?9?|
I didn’t immediately realize they were monsters. They appeared to be about twenty years old, clean-cut Ivy League college boys, the kind who had gone to the best private schools since they were two and learned to read by paging through GQ magazine. The blond wore Converse sneakers, black jeans, a black polo shirt, and a pale-gray summer-weight knee-length topcoat. His companion wore bright-yellow sneakers, a gray suit, a white-and-yellow T-shirt; he carried a red-and-black-checkered tote bag.
The hostess tried to seat them near us, but they wanted a booth at the very back of the room, though that meant sitting near the two swinging doors to the kitchen. They didn’t appear to be accustomed to sitting near the kitchen, but they insisted on it.
Bridget said softly, “Screamer alert, Grandpa.”
“Quinn,” Sparky whispered, “don’t stare at them. They’re major bad news.”
As the two glided through the restaurant, they surveyed the customers with what seemed to be amused contempt. I had sometimes wondered what it must be like to be their type, to be so self-assured in all circumstances, so certain of being superior. My imagination was not up to the task.
“We never know what their kind are looking for. We’re afraid it might be Bridget.”
I looked away from the duo as they followed the hostess in our direction.
Bridget reached across the table. “Give me your hand.”
Holding her hand was preferable to taking a punch from her.
She raised her voice and put a little gush in it. “Darling, the Arizona Biltmore is the perfect place for the reception. Yes, it’s expensive, but if Grandfather insists on paying for it—”
“I do,” Sparky said. “I insist. My only grandchild is marrying the son of my best friend on my own wedding anniversary. What could be more romantic? It makes me feel young and in love again. There’s no price too high for that feeling.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw the college boys slow as they passed our booth, perhaps giving us a close inspection. “Sweetums, I want whatever you want,” I declared. I turned my smile on Sparky. “Sir, I’m knocked out by your generosity. Really knocked out. Just totally knocked out.”
The stylish pair moved away from us. I dared to look up—and saw the right hand of the one carrying the tote. His hand was no longer a human hand. The six fingers lacked knuckles and resembled tentacles, gray and sinuous. Wickedly sharp talons gleamed for an instant, but then were gone, retracted as if they did not exist. The hand appeared to be highly articulated and yet amorphous, as if by an act of will the creature could remake that instrument from a tool into a lethal weapon.
As I squeezed Bridget’s hand, she gripped mine tighter and said, “You see?”
“Yes.” I looked after the retreating pair.
These beasts were like menacing presences from those disturbing dreams that have their origins in generations long before our own, those dreams that boil up from the primordiality of our creation. They moved through the restaurant and settled into the booth near the entrance to the kitchen. They lacked anything that could be called a face. Screamer alert, Bridget had told her grandfather. I understood why she would call them Screamers. These things seemed to be perpetually straining to scream, although no sound escaped them. Where a face should have been, there were no apparent eyes or ears or nose, but only a pale-lipped mouth fixed open wide, as circular as a drain, like the mouth of a hookworm. At a distance, I couldn’t be sure, but I thought that a repulsive organ slithered continuously within those disgusting orifices, as though they were greedy for sustenance.