A little voice from within says, “Up where?”
Uh-oh, Jack thinks, and says, “Out of bed. I’m Jack Sawyer, Tansy. We met last night. I’m helping the police, and I told you I’d come over today.”
He hears footsteps moving toward the door. “Are you the man who gave me the flowers? He was a nice man.”
“That was me.”
A lock clicks, and the knob revolves. The door cracks open. A sliver of a faintly olive-skinned face and a single eye shine out of the inner darkness. “It is you. Come in, fast. Fast.” She steps back, opening the door just wide enough for him to pass through. As soon as he is inside, she slams it shut and locks it again.
The molten light burning at the edges of the curtains and the window shades deepens the darkness of the long trailer’s interior. One soft lamp burns above the sink, and another, just as low, illuminates a little table otherwise occupied by a bottle of coffee brandy, a smeary glass decorated with a picture of a cartoon character, and a scrapbook. The circle of light cast by the lamp extends to take in half of a low, fabric-covered chair next to the table. Tansy Freneau pushes herself off the door and takes two light, delicate steps toward him. She tilts her head and folds her hands together beneath her chin. The eager, slightly glazed expression in her eyes dismays Jack. By even the widest, most comprehensive definition of sanity, this woman is not sane. He has no idea what to say to her.
“Would you care to . . . sit down?” With a hostessy wave of her hand, she indicates a high-backed wooden chair.
“If it’s all right with you.”
“Why wouldn’t it be all right? I’m going to sit down in my chair, why shouldn’t you sit down in that one?”
“Thank you,” Jack says, and sits down, watching her glide back to the door to check the lock. Satisfied, Tansy gives him a brilliant smile and pads back to her chair, moving almost with the duck-waddle grace of a ballerina. When she lowers herself to the chair, he says, “Are you afraid of someone who might come here, Tansy? Is there someone you want to keep locked out?”
“Oh, yes,” she says, and leans forward, pulling her eyebrows together in an exaggerated display of little-girl seriousness. “But it isn’t a someone, it’s a thing. And I’m never, never going to let him in my house again, not ever. But I’ll let you in, because you’re a very nice man and you gave me those beautiful flowers. And you’re very handsome, too.”
“Is Gorg the thing you want to keep out, Tansy? Are you afraid of Gorg?”
“Yes,” she says, primly. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”
“No, thank you.”
“Well, I’m going to have some. It’s very, very good tea. It tastes sort of like coffee.” She raises her eyebrows and gives him a bright, questioning look. He shakes his head. Without moving from her chair, Tansy pours two fingers of the brandy into her glass and sets the bottle back down on the table. The figure on her glass, Jack sees, is Scooby-Doo. Tansy sips from the glass. “Yummy. Do you have a girlfriend? I could be your girlfriend, you know, especially if you gave me more of those lovely flowers. I put them in a vase.” She pronounces the word like a parody of a Boston matron: vahhhz. “See?”
On the kitchen counter, the lilies of the vale droop in a mason jar half-filled with water. Removed from the Territories, they do not have long to live. This world, Jack supposes, is poisoning them faster than they are able to deal with. Every ounce of goodness they yield to their surroundings subtracts from their essence. Tansy, he realizes, has been kept afloat on the residue of the Territories remaining in the lilies—when they die, her protective little-girl persona will crumble into dust, and her madness may engulf her. That madness came from Gorg; he’d bet his life on it.
“I do have a boyfriend, but he doesn’t count. His name is Lester Moon. Beezer and his friends call him Stinky Cheese, but I don’t know why. Lester isn’t all that stinky, at least not when he’s sober.”
“Tell me about Gorg,” Jack says.
Extending her little finger away from the Scooby-Doo glass, Tansy takes another sip of coffee brandy. She frowns. “Oh, that’s a real icky thing to talk about.”
“I want to know about him, Tansy. If you help me, I can make sure he never bothers you again.”
“Really?”
“And you’d be helping me find the man who killed your daughter.”
“I can’t talk about that now. It’s too upsetting.” Tansy flutters her free hand over her lap as if sweeping off a crumb. Her face contracts, and a new expression moves into her eyes. For a second, the desperate, unprotected Tansy rises to the surface, threatening to explode in a madness of grief and rage.
“Does Gorg look like a person, or like something else?”
Tansy shakes her head from side to side with great slowness. She is composing herself again, reinstating a personality that can ignore her real emotions. “Gorg does not look like a person. Not at all.”
“You said he gave you the feather you were wearing. Does he look like a bird?”
“Gorg doesn’t look like a bird, he is a bird. And do you know what kind?” She leans forward again, and her face takes on the expression of a six-year-old girl about to tell the worst thing she knows. “A raven. That’s what he is, a big, old raven. All black. But not shiny black.” Her eyes widen with the seriousness of what she has to say. “He came from Night’s Plutonian shore. That’s from a poem Mrs. Normandie taught us in the sixth grade. ‘The Raven,’ by Edgar Allan Poe.”
Tansy straightens up, having passed on this nugget of literary history. Jack guesses that Mrs. Normandie probably wore the same satisfied, pedagogic expression that is now on Tansy’s face, but without the bright, unhealthy glaze in Tansy’s eyes.
“Night’s Plutonian shore is not part of this world,” Tansy continues. “Did you know that? It’s alongside this world, and outside it. You need to find a door, if you want to go there.”
This is like talking to Judy Marshall, Jack abruptly realizes, but a Judy without the depth of soul and the unbelievable courage that rescued her from madness. The instant that Judy Marshall comes into his mind, he wants to see her again, so strongly that Judy feels like the one essential key to the puzzle all around him. And if she is the key, she is also the door the key opens. Jack wants to be out of the dark, warped atmosphere of Tansy’s Airstream; he wants to put off the Thunder Five and speed up the highway and over the hill to Arden and the gloomy hospital where radiant Judy Marshall has found freedom in a locked mental ward.
“But I don’t ever want to find that door, because I don’t want to go there,” Tansy says in a singsong voice. “Night’s Plutonian shore is a bad world. Everything’s on fire there.”
“How do you know that?”
“Gorg told me,” she whispers. Tansy’s gaze skitters away from him and fastens on the Scooby-Doo glass. “Gorg likes fire. But not because it makes him warm. Because it burns things up, and that makes him happy. Gorg said . . .” She shakes her head and lifts the glass to her mouth. Instead of drinking from it, she tilts the liquid toward the lip of the glass and laps at it with her tongue. Her eyes slide up to meet his again. “I think my tea is magic.”
I bet you do, Jack thinks, and his heart nearly bursts for delicate lost Tansy.
“You can’t cry in here,” she tells him. “You looked like you wanted to cry, but you can’t. Mrs. Normandie doesn’t allow it. You can kiss me, though. Do you want to kiss me?”
“Of course I do,” he says. “But Mrs. Normandie doesn’t allow kissing, either.”
“Oh, well.” Tansy laps again at her drink. “We can do it later, when she leaves the room. And you can put your arms around me, like Lester Moon. And everything Lester does, you can do. With me.”
“Thank you,” Jack says. “Tansy, can you tell me some of the other things Gorg said?”
She cants her head and pushes her lips in and out. “He said he came here through a burning hole. With folded-back edges. And he said I was a mother, and I had to help my daughter. In the poem, her name is Lenore, but her real name is Irma. And he said . . . he said a mean old man ate her leg, but there were worse things that could have happened to my Irma.”