R. MacAvoy - Tea with the Black Dragon

Mumbling to herself, she pushed open the bedroom door and pulled off her suit. This she hung on a wooden hanger, with a care born out of habit. She pulled a pair of blue jeans out of the dresser drawer and put them on, along with a French T-shirt. Then she flung herself across the bed, trying to cry. Huge, painful sobs sounded for five minutes, wracking her body, while the bed dandled and rocked her. Abruptly she gave up the effort, for no matter how she wailed, her eyes remained dry. She could not cry for her mother. She could not cry for herself.

Suddenly she jackknifed from the bed. Had she heard something? For almost a minute she stood listening. But why would they want to break in on her? They knew the thing they wanted was not there. And they knew better than to touch her personally.

She sighed silently. Hysteria was no use; she had to think. She brushed her hair back with her fingers. Her hands were large boned, her arms long. The only thought that occurred to her was that she wanted a drink. Barefoot, she paced into the kitchen.

She could reach the high cupboard easily. For years mother had depended on her to fetch things like the meat chopper from the cabinet on top of the fridge. Now her fingers closed on a dusty quart bottle of Teachers and brought it down. Setting it on the butcher-block table, she opened the china cupboard, where the tea cups hung in rows from little hooks, and picked out a pebble bottomed tumbler. She poured and downed the shot without tasting; Liz didn’t really like Scotch. She poured another and stared at it. After five minutes she capped the bottle and headed for the sink to dump the tumbler. She heard a step behind her.

The only thought she could muster was that the geese had let her down. But they weren’t geese, of course. They were gulls. She swiveled and raised her slim right arm. With excellent aim, she threw the bottle of Teacher’s at the sound.

And stood staring at the apparition in her kitchen: an elegant, swarthy man with black hair and a gray suit, whose hand wrapped around the sloshing bottle. Who smiled and said diffidently, “Thank you. Usually I use a glass.”

Liz’s lungs filled with air, but the scream never arrived. “Shit!” she cried instead. “Who the hell are you?”

He stood for a moment, brow furrowed, holding the bottle of whiskey. It was as though her question required some thought. “I am… not an enemy. Miss Macnamara. In fact, I am probably the best hope you have.”

“Who are you?” she repeated in a small voice—a child’s voice. Then stronger. Angry. “Who are you? Rasmussen never said…”

“Rasmussen? No, miss. I do not represent the interests of Floyd Rasmussen.” Calmly, he set the bottle back on the table, while his eyes followed her closely.

Her hands clenched repeatedly. “Then who? Where’d you come from? How’d you get in here?” Liz Macnamara stalked closer, stiff legged, amazement and outrage overcoming her fear.

The man, by contrast, leaned insouciantly against the table, rolling the bottle from hand to hand. “My name is Long—Mayland Long. I am sent by your mother to find you.”

She took one more step forward, a cry escaping from between clenched teeth. She grabbed at Mr. Long’s sleeves, caught one brown hand and held it. “Then she’s all right. He lied? She’s not being held…”

Her words slowed and stopped, as she glanced down at the dark fingers clutched in her own. She stared at the hand, puzzled.

Long sighed. “She is not all right at all. She has vanished, and if you have been told that she is being held somewhere, it is probably not a lie.”

Two seconds worth of hope died in the young woman’s face. Without another glance at Long, she walked into the living room and sat down on the bright, chrome framed sofa. Jaw clenching spasmodically, she stared out the window. He, meanwhile, made a quick circuit of the room, drawing the drapes. Lacy panels of fiberglass filtered the light, concealing them from the outside and casting a pattern of brilliant squares against the stark white walls. In the dimness Long was nearly invisible, but the woman’s skin shone like blue glass. Wind blew the drapes about, sending the dappled wall into a star dance.

Long sat down beside Liz Macnamara. “Elizabeth. Your mother is taken but she is not dead. We’ve got no time to brood.”

Her eyes shocked open. She stared at the strange face so close to her own. “Oh hell!” she whispered. “I can’t believe this is really happening.”

Hers was a strong face, smooth and lean featured. A Viking face. Suppressed fury sharpened its lines. “I did this to her… I did.”

He raised his eyebrows as he settled himself cautiously into the ultramodern foam sofa. “Yes, I rather think you did,” he agreed, his voice terribly gentle.

He turned to her in the dimness, with no sound except the rustle of silk. “You have been playing with the big boys, Miss Macnamara.”

These words pierced through Liz’s funk. Her jaw tightened and she pulled herself up. “What do you mean by that crack? Why shouldn’t I ‘play with the big boys?’ ”

He folded his hands on his knee and considered. “No reason at all. But in this particular sort of game one does not call on one’s mother when things go badly. You see?”

Liz Macnamara dropped her eyes. “You’re right. How can I explain? It felt like a nightmare, you see, and mother was always so good with nightmares. My mother has the power to put perspectives right… She’s so—so confident. I thought nothing nasty could touch her.”

Then, abruptly, her hands clenched. “You can’t know about this. Not unless you’re from them: from Rasmussen or Threve. But I don’t know why they sent you. What more can you want from me? I’ll get the letter tomorrow; the banks are already closed today.”

Mayland Long drank in this assortment of information. “Your mother also shifts mood like that: floats like dust in the air and then comes down with a great crash. I had thought this was part other spiritual attainment, but perhaps she was born that way.”

He met the confused stubbornness in Elizabeth’s face and sighed. He let his eyes wander through the starkly furnished, expensive rooms.

Liz Macnamara’s home was sharp angled, glacial pale. The walls were neither ecru, dove nor cream but a white so pure as to shimmer with blue. On the bare, bleached oak floor were scattered cobalt Rya rugs, like holes in smooth ice. On a table in the dining ell rested a tray of Swedish glass, glinting smooth and colorless.

Long’s brow darkened. “What can I say that will convince you? Let’s see… You don’t get along with your mother. She irritates you. Makes you feel vaguely guilty. You believe she has abandoned her true life’s work as a concert violinist.”

Her face remained frozen. “You got that from Rasmussen. I told him all that a long time ago.”

He sighed, raised his hand to the side of his head, and scratched his ear with one elongated finger. Liz Macnamara stared at that finger, fascinated.

“Did you tell him also that your mother wakes every morning at five to do zazen? That she appreciates the poems of John Donne? That she can listen to… a person… until truth comes out of him? Sometimes it’s a truth that never was truth before?”

Liz’s jaw worked. She sorted the words Long spoke so diffidently. Her eyes sought reassurance in his impassive face.

“Do you even know these things about her?” His voice sank away.

There was silence in the room. Suddenly Liz Macnamara got up and paced to the window. The drapes swirled about her as she peered out at the gulls in the shower of the fountain.

“How did you get in here?”

He hesitated before answering. “Through that window.”

“Here?” She leaned out. “It’s ten feet from the ground,” she accused. “The wall is shingle.”