Chapter Four
With Number Five sick, the air inside the building grew stale by afternoon. Pax opened a back door and propped it with a sleeping gargoyle.
“Ernie won’t like it does he wake to find you’ve used him for a doorstop,” opined Bert, the other gargoyle, who lay sunning himself in a small dry patch.
The absence of the small birch forest that used to lie here stung Pax like the spiked kiss of a whip.
Instead, Number Five’s courtyard was now paved with pockmarked cement, entirely bare except for one lone bench, the wood tinged with green and listing to the left.
Stepping outside, Pax tilted his head up, closed his eyes, and let the puny sun’s rays sink into his skin as a garbage truck roared past.
So much noise in this world.
The humans here went from stationary noisy boxes to mobile noisy boxes and back again. What could the appeal be in driving these autos? How did they commune with a case of aluminum and plastic?
The hardest part of becoming the hotel manager had been saying goodbye to his horse, Butthead.
Pax hadn’t named the horse. Like most horses, it had named itself without consideration for what the name might sound like in other languages. Pax had hated shouting, “Charge, Butthead!” but Butthead had been a good horse.
Pax held out his hand, palm down, into a shaft of light. The invisible heat sank deep into his bones—only once he was warm could he appreciate how cold he’d been these last few weeks.
A high-pitched scream followed by a torrent of giggles drifted from the open windows on the top floor, signaling the faery princesses were awake.
To entice a faery, all one had to do was pull out a fiddle or a ￠¤?§cc·wll and play a tune.
Before Number Five got sick, there had often been music ringing and rolling through the building.
One by one, the guest’s instruments had fallen apart, rusted shut, or simply vanished.
No faery circles could be held while Number Five sickened.
The princesses’ moods had been dark indeed.
Unfortunately for the furniture, they’d decided on competitive cheer as a substitute.
“Oh, hello, Mr. Pax.”
Josie and Amos stood in the doorway behind him.
Pax pretended to be startled, but he’d heard their footsteps as soon as they’d left their apartment.
A “perk” of being a hotel manager was the ability to hear guests whenever they moved around the building.
When Number Five was fully booked, it sounded like a small army was in residence.
“It’s waundry time,” Amos announced. “We been trying to find waundry machines for two hours and all we finds is stairs.”
The boy wore a magenta sweatshirt, a purple hairband, and yellow plastic shoes with holes in them. Two of the holes were plugged with what looked like tiny blue gnomes with white puffy hats.
Denis would have a fit.
“Two hours is an exaggeration, but I have gotten us turned around a few times,” Josie said, her mouth lifted to one side in a sheepish smile. “You will have to draw me a map.”
Number Five sent you where it wanted you to go. Disconcerting if you didn’t know what was happening, but not something Pax could tell her about.
“This is an old building,” he said instead. “Everyone gets lost sometimes, even me.”
During a long siege, soldiers had an aura about them. Not resignation exactly, but a state of acceptance that the barricades might fall, and a final battle loomed around the corner; a fragility revealing itself in the shadows under their eyes or how they drew out their goodbyes.
This same aura surrounded Josie. Pax could tell she would never break, but the signs of exhaustion after a siege were there—she couldn’t stretch her smile to fit her face and the furrows between her eyes were deep enough he wondered how often she laughed.
Amos walked past Josie into the courtyard, adept at avoiding the piles of dirty snow. The child raised his face to the sun and smiled, then went to stand over Ernie.
“He likes to be petted?” the boy asked. Obviously, the question had been rhetorical, because Amos began to pat Ernie’s stone head without waiting for an answer.
“This courtyard is…well, there is a basketball hoop. That’s promising.” Josie followed Amos out into the sunlight, carrying a plastic basket piled with clothes.
The net of the basketball hoop was dirty and ripped on one side.
It hadn’t been there when Pax had stopped to speak with Bert.
“Do you like basketbawl?” Amos asked. He’d squatted next to Ernie and looked up from examining the gargoyle’s ears to meet Pax’s gaze.
“I don’t know much about basketball,” Pax admitted. “These teams of men who call themselves warriors, do they not have a cause to fight for? What sort of battle calls for a man to be revered for throwing a ball into a hoop rather than for his courage or foresight?”
Amos’s mouth opened and his little head tilted to the side. Obviously, Pax had given the wrong answer.
“Yes. I like basketball.”
This turned out to be the correct answer, and Amos promptly stuck his fingers up Ernie’s nose.
Josie examined the courtyard, frowning at the broken bench. Here, March was the end of winter. In Pax’s world, it meant the beginning of spring when the air smelled like wet leaves and crushed mint.
Josie’s delicate lips were the same color pink as the earliest flowers on Pax’s world. They were called “tentatives,” those flowers, because they came after the first thaw and were gone by the next frost. Their fleeting purpose solely to give folks hope that spring would come soon.
“This looks a little worse for wear. Is it nicer in the summer?” she asked.
She must think he was slow to understand, because every time Josie asked him a question, Pax paused, searching for an answer that wouldn’t give away any magical secrets.
There were no outward signs of impatience, no fiddling with her clothes or tapping her foot.
She waited, unmoving, her serious gray eyes fixed on him without judgment.
They were pretty, her eyes. He looked away and stared at the rotting bench.
What he wanted to do was compliment Josie.
Tell her something nice about her eyes or how she smelled like cherries and powdered sugar.
What a bad idea. She might take offense and leave the building. Where would they be then?
Pax did wonder if she knew.
If Josie knew how lovely her eyes were.
“Yes, I find it nicer later in the year.” He watched Amos’s little hands pat Ernie’s back. “I will see to a new basketball net and…”
What did just-turned-four-year-old boys play on?
“What else might Mr. Amos enjoy?” he asked. “A horse? Not a real horse, of course.”
Oh.
The way Josie’s face lightened, the worry lifting from the bed of wrinkles across her forehead, the way those soft, pink lips drifted into the prettiest of smiles; he’d done this with only a kind gesture?
If she’d been his soldier, Pax would have clasped her on the shoulder and headbutted her lightly, armored helm clinking against armored helm.
This did not seem to be a common form of encouragement on this world, however.
“He doesn’t need a horse, but that is a kind offer.”
Kind.
Josie thought he was kind. On some worlds they called him The Butcher. On others, his name meant “drowned in blood.”
They watched Amos singing softly to himself, comfortable in the silence.
“It’s too bad there isn’t any green space back here. The one drawback of living in the city is not having a piece of earth to work. It would be a nice spot…” She looked around. “Oh, I didn’t notice that tree until now. Is it a pear tree?” Josie asked.
Pax spun on his heel and confronted the sight of a pear tree newly sprung up in a corner.
“I believe it is,” he said.
Josie set the plastic basket on her hip and shifted her weight. She smelled better than cherries and powdered sugar. She smelled like something you make with cherries and sugar. Like a pie.
“Funny how I missed something that big,” she said.
“Most people don’t see what’s in front of them until it becomes important.”
He winced at how officious he sounded.
“Let me guess. Were you in the army?” Josie asked.
“Yes,” he answered, letting his gaze brush the side of her face. “All my life.”
“My grandfather was, too,” she said quietly. “You remind me of him.”
Ouch.
Grandfather, eh?
Good thing he had no interest in this woman aside from a building superintendent’s concern for a tenant. Her comparison might have stung. Might have made him wonder how old he looked or remember how Number Five stayed in one place for only a short while before always moving on.
· · ·
Sometimes Josie visualized her brain as a villain. A thin, unhappy woman who chain-smoked Pall Malls, leaving only a ring of CoverGirl’s Candy Red lipstick bleeding into the wrinkles around her mouth.
In other words, her gramma.
Most times, Josie could stay in control, but sometimes Josie’s brain had its own agenda.
When she was supposed to be listening to her boss, her brain would focus on the slight stain inside the collar of his button-down oxford.
Once she latched on to the stain, her brain went on a lightning-fast journey, from questions about the sustainability of mass-produced clothing, the relative toxicity of laundry soaps, whether her boss would ever remarry, did she remember to pack Amos’s lunchtime pill for daycare, to why was she still in this job, treading water, the rent is why, would her mother-in-law surprise her with a visit that afternoon, and was the apartment clean enough to pass muster.
All those thoughts would cascade through her brain in a matter of seconds, distracting her so she missed half of what her boss had said.
Then, when she asked him to repeat that last part, her brain would scold her with a familiar litany, like a recording looping over and over.
Josie’s brain shouted at her right now. Why do you say the things you say? Why can’t you keep your thoughts to yourself? Why are you so stupid?
Always, so stupid.
“Not that you’re old,” Josie said quickly. Pax had flinched when she compared him to her grandfather. That flinch would settle into her brain like a pea beneath a mattress, only to pop out at random times.
Clouds covered the sun. Josie wanted Pax to look at her. The weight of his stare did something to quiet her brain.
“You’re not as old as he was. At least I don’t, um…”
Ugh, that was embarrassing. Josie slapped her palm over her eyes.
“Are you covering your eyes so you don’t see the wounded look on my face?” Pax asked.
The tenor of his voice remained soft and even, giving nothing away.
Either he was teasing her, or he was supersensitive about his age.
She spread her fingers and peeked with one eye.
He wasn’t smiling.
Then he winked.
Oh. That wink did something weird to her stomach, leaving her a little lightheaded as though she’d been pushed and wasn’t expecting it. A swoop almost.
A swoop was close to a swoon.
Josie needed to get out of here before she said something else to keep her up at three o’clock in the morning.
“I—oh, hey, Amos.” Josie set down her laundry and scooped up her son. “I doubt Mr. Pax wants you to ride his gargoyle.”
Amos’s sweatshirt rode up when she grabbed him.
Josie took advantage and made a loud raspberry on his belly below his surgical scar.
As always, his giggle evoked a tiny thrill.
She looked up at Pax, but he proved impossible to read.
With a palm covering his mouth as though stifling a yawn, he cleared his throat while staring at the gargoyle.
“I’m sure Ernie enjoyed the attention,” he said.
“He wikes me,” Amos insisted, giggles trailing off like tiny golden burps. “He said so. He laughed at my jokes.”
Pax scowled and his face closed in anger.
Josie’s joy shriveled, and the clouds above turned the color of a bruise. His classic features turned from marble-like to granite when he lifted his chin. The broad shoulders and muscled thighs she’d admired now intimidated her with their implied strength.
Josie didn’t know this man. Not really.
Instincts honed by a childhood spent at the mercy of powerful men kicked in. Josie picked up the laundry basket and directed Amos toward the propped door with her knee.
“Well, see you later,” she said.
“You are leaving?” Pax asked, sounding perplexed. As though his expression hadn’t turned as dark as the clouds.
“There isn’t much to keep a little boy occupied out here,” she said apologetically, her impulse to smooth things over kicking in.
“I’ll take him to the park later. The sun has been out and maybe melted some of the snow.
I’m sorry he climbed on the statue,” Josie said.
“He won’t touch anything again; I’ll make sure of it. ”
Pax opened his mouth, to say what, she didn’t know, because it snapped shut and he glowered at the statue once more.
“I’m sorry,” Josie whispered, then hurried after Amos, her brain berating her the whole time.