Ron Rash - Serena

"A cake worthy of a king," Lowenstein said admiringly as the cake's flickering light suffused Pemberton's face in a golden glow.

"A wish before you blow out the candles," Calhoun demanded.

"I need no wish," Pemberton said. "I've nothing left to want."

He stared at the candles and the swaying motions of the flames gave his stomach a momentary queasiness. Pemberton inhaled deeply and blew, taking two more breaths before the last candle was snuffed.

"Another toast," Calhoun said, "to the man who has everything."

"Yes, a toast," Lowenstein said.

They all raised their glasses and drank, except Serena.

"I disagree," Serena said as the others set their glasses down. "There's one thing my husband doesn't have."

"What would that be?" Mrs. De Man asked.

"The panther he hoped to kill in these mountains."

"Ah, too late," Pemberton said, and looked at the expired candles in mock regret."

"Perhaps not," Serena said to Pemberton. "Galloway has been out scouting for your panther the last week, and he's found it."

Serena nodded toward the open office door, where Galloway had appeared.

"Right, Galloway."

The highlander nodded as Pemberton paused in his cutting of the cake.

"Where?" Pemberton asked.

"Ivy Gap," Serena said. "Galloway's baited a meadow just outside the park boundary with deer carcasses. Three evenings ago the panther came and fed on one. Tomorrow it should be hungry again, and this time you'll be waiting for it."

Serena turned to address Galloway. As she did, Pemberton saw that a diminutive figure in a black satin bonnet stood behind him in the foyer.

"Bring her in," Serena said.

As mother and son entered the room, the old woman's wrinkled hand clutched Galloway's left wrist, covering the nub as if to foster an illusion that the hand attached to her son's arm might be his instead of her own. Mrs. Galloway's cedar-wood shoes clacked hollowly on the puncheon floor. She wore the same black dress that Pemberton had seen her in two summers ago.

"Entertainment for our guests," Serena said.

All at the table turned to watch the old woman totter into the room. Serena placed a chair next to Pemberton and gestured at Galloway to seat her. Galloway helped his mother into the chair. She undid her bonnet and handed it to her son, who remained beside her. It was the first time Pemberton had clearly seen the old woman's face. It reminded him of a walnut hull with its deep wavy wrinkles, dry as a hull as well. Her eyes stared straight ahead, clouded the same milky-blue as before. Galloway, the satin bonnet in his hand, stepped back and leaned against the wall.

Calhoun, his face blushed by alcohol, finally broke the silence.

"What sort of entertainment? I see no dulcimer or banjo. An a cappella ballad from the old country? Perhaps a jack tale?"

Calhoun leaned over to his wife and whispered. They both looked at the old woman and laughed.

"She sees the future," Serena said.

"Marvelous," Lowenstein said, and turned to his spouse. "We won't need our stockbroker any more, dear."

Everyone at the table laughed except the old woman and Serena. As the laughter subsided, Mrs. Lowenstein raised a purple handkerchief to her lips.

"Mrs. Galloway's talents are of a more personal nature," Serena said.

"Look out, Lowenstein," Calhoun retorted. "She may predict you're going to prison for tax evasion."

Laughter again filled the room, but the old woman appeared impervious to the jesting. Galloway's mother clasped her hands and set them on the table. Blue veins webbed the loose skin, and the nails were cracked and yellowed, yet neatly trimmed. Pemberton smiled at the thought of Galloway bent over the old crone, carefully clipping each nail.

"Who wants to go first?" Serena said.

"Oh, me please," Mrs. Lowenstein said. "Do I need to hold out my palm or does she have a crystal ball."

"Ask your question," Serena said, her smile thinning.

"Very well. Will my daughter get married soon?"

The old woman turned in the direction of Mrs. Lowenstein's voice and slowly nodded.

"Wonderful," Mrs. Lowenstein said. "I'll get to be a mother of the bride after all. I so feared Hannah would wait until I was pushing up daisies."

Mrs. Galloway stared in Mrs. Lowenstein's direction a few moments longer, then spoke.

"All I said was she'd get married soon."

An uncomfortable silence descended over the table. Pemberton struggled for a quip to restore the levity, but the alcohol blurred his thinking. Serena met his eyes but offered no help. Finally it was Mr. De Man, who'd said little the whole evening, who attempted to lessen the disquietude.

"What about Pemberton. It's his birthday we're here to celebrate. He should have his fortune told."

"Yes," Serena said. "Pemberton should go next. I even have the perfect question for him."

"And what is that, my dear?" Pemberton asked.

"Ask her how you'll die."

Mrs. Salvatore let out a soft oh, her eyes shifting between her husband and the door, which she appeared ready to flee through. Lowenstein took his wife's hand, his brow furrowed. He seemed about to say something, but Serena spoke first.

"Go ahead, Pemberton. For our guests' amusement."

Salvatore rose in his seat.

"Perhaps it's time for us to take leave and return to Asheville," he said, but Pemberton raised his hand and gestured for him to sit down.

"Very well," Pemberton said, raising his tumbler and giving his guests a reassuring grin. "But I'll finish my dram of liquor first. A man should have a drink in his hand when he confronts his demise."

"Well put," Calhoun said, "a man who understands how to meet his fate, with a belly full of good scotch."

The others smiled at Calhoun's remark, including Salvatore, who eased back into his chair. Pemberton emptied his tumbler and set it down forcefully enough that Mrs. Salvatore flinched.

"So how will I die, Mrs. Galloway?" Pemberton asked, his words beginning to slur. "Will it be a gunshot? Perhaps a knife?"

Galloway, who'd been gazing out the window, now fixed his eyes on his mother.

"A rope's more likely for a scoundrel like you, Pemberton," Calhoun said, eliciting chuckles all around.

The old woman turned her head in Pemberton's direction.

"No gun nor knife," she answered. "Nor rope around your neck."

"That's a relief," Pemberton said.

Except for the Salvatores, the guests laughed politely.

"What killed my father was his liver," Pemberton said.

"It ain't to be your liver," Mrs. Galloway said.

"So what, pray tell, is the thing that will kill me?"

"They ain't one thing can kill a man like you," Mrs. Galloway answered, and pushed back her chair.

Galloway helped his mother to her feet, and at that moment Pemberton realized it was all a jape. The others realized also as Mrs. Galloway took her son's arm and made her slow clatter across the room and disappeared into the darkened hallway. Pemberton raised his tumbler toward Serena.

"Splendid answer, and the best any man could hope for," he said. "A toast to my wife, who can play a rusty with the best of them."

Pemberton looked down the table's length and smiled at Serena as the others laughed and clapped. The alcohol made everyone else in the room hazy to Pemberton, but somehow not Serena. If anything, she appeared brighter, the dress vivid and shimmering. Evergreen. The word came to him now though he could not say why. He remembered the touch of his lips on the pale bareness of her neck and wished the guests hours gone. If they were, he wouldn't wait but would lift Serena onto the table and undress her on the Chestnut's heartwood. For a few moments, he thought of doing it anyway and giving Mrs. Salvatore a real case of the vapors.

All raised their glasses and drank. Calhoun, who'd drunk almost as much as Pemberton, wiped a dribble of scotch from his chin before pouring himself another drink.