Грэм Мастертон - Famine

‘You’re so late ! I expected you hours ago! I was beginning to think something awful had happened! Poor old Carl had to call the airline five times to make sure you weren’t scattered all over the Grand Canyon!’

‘It was something to do with the fuel,’ said Season. ‘I got to see rather more of Albuquerque air terminal than I really wanted to.’

‘Well, don’t you worry,’ fussed Vee. ‘You can rest up tonight, and sleep as long as you want tomorrow. I have your favourite dinner for you, and a bottle of champagne on ice, and you can take your shoes off and relax. Oh – and will you take a look at Sally! Hasn’t she grown ?’

Carl was just lifting Sally out of the back of the stationwagon. He carried her across to the wooden steps in a careful and fatherly way – which wasn’t surprising when you knew that he had four children of his own by a previous marriage, the youngest of whom was ten. He was a stocky, well-preserved forty-five-year-old, with cropped white hair and a square Polish-looking face. He made sensitive and not very successful movies about young kids dropping out from school – Pursuit of Happiness-type pictures.

Sally stood in the hallway rubbing her eyes as Carl went to carry up the cases. Season said, ‘Don’t worry, honey – we’ll soon get you to bed. Would you like some milk and cookies?’

The inside of the Snowman house was built in natural, fragrant-smelling wood, with Navajo scatter rugs on the floor, and even an authentic cigar-store Indian presiding over the dining-area. The furniture was a self-conscious mixture of Italian stainless-steel and carved Mexican-Spanish, in red and gold. Already set out on the table, lit by trefoil candle-holders, were plates of salad and guacamole and taco chips.

‘We’re eating Mexican?’ asked Season. ‘That’s wonderful. I haven’t eaten Mexican in centuries. All we ever eat in Kansas is beef, and more beef, and for a change we have beef.’

‘You’re sure Sally doesn’t want to join us for dinner?’

‘No, no—’ said Season. ‘She’s tired. I’ll take her straight to bed. I’d like to wash up myself.’

‘Oh, before you go up – you must meet Granger. Granger – come and say hello to my favourite and only sister!’

From a corner of the living-area, carrying a large crystal tumbler of scotch, a lithe, blond-haired man appeared, wearing a black turtle-neck sweater, black trousers, and black shoes. He had a lean, ascetic face, with a hawkish nose. His eyes were very pale, as if the pupils had been bleached like a pair of blue jeans, from indigo to almost no colour at all. Around his neck was a massive silver crucifix, on which was impaled the body of Christ, in eighteen carat gold.

‘This is Granger Hughes,’ said Vee. ‘Granger, this is my dearly-beloved sister. Season Hardesty.’

Granger took Season’s hand, bowed, and kissed it. ‘I’m charmed,’ he said. ‘Coleridge wrote that “all seasons shall be sweet to thee,” and how right he was.’

‘Well, he’s dead now,’ said Season, slightly embarrassed. ‘True,’ said Granger, ‘but I’m pleased to see that you’re keeping his sentiments alive. You’re a very pretty woman.’

‘Thank you,’ Season told him. She wasn’t used to compliments, and she knew that he had made her blush. Out in Kansas, the nearest she had ever received to a compliment was that she was ‘sassy’. She glanced towards Vee for some moral support, but Vee was simply grinning her toothy California grin and taking Granger’s suavity for granted.

‘Are you a priest, or something?’ Season asked Granger. ‘You seem to have all the necessary accoutrements.’

‘I’m a priest of sorts,’ said Granger, with a cryptic smile. Vee said, ‘He’s more than a priest. Season. He’s a spiritual leader. Carl and I met him through Dr Schauman – that’s our analyst. We went to a wine-and-cheese party at Bobby Wanderelli’s – you know Bobby Wanderelli who plays the cousin in The Fortune Saga on television? I mean, it’s a terrible show but he’s a wonderful person. You’d have to be wonderful to play that part for three series and stay sane! Anyway, Granger was there and Dr Schauman introduced us. He said he felt that both of our lives could do with some of Granger’s religious solidity. Granger’s very literal in his interpretation of the scriptures, you know. He believes that all the miracles that Christ performed actually happened – you know, like raising Lazarus and walking on water – and he thinks we can all achieve the same kind of miracles if we give ourselves to Christ.’

Season was watching Granger the whole time that Vee was talking. He had a slight smile on his face, but his eyes were giving away nothing. When Vee had finished. Season nodded as if to say, well, Mr Hughes, very impressive.

‘I call my group “The Church of the Practical Miracle”,’ said Granger.

‘And you really believe you can work miracles, the way Christ did?’

‘You sound cynical,’ said Granger. ‘You don’t believe in what the Bible tells us about Jesus?’

‘Maybe I’m just tired,’ said Season. ‘You’ll have to forgive me, but I’ve just flown here from Kansas, with a three-hour stopover in New Mexico. I don’t think anybody would feel like performing miracles after that, or even witnessing one. You’ll excuse me.’

‘Wait,’ said Granger, and the sharp way in which he said it made Season pause. ‘Wait,’ he said again, in a gentler voice.

Season looked at him. ‘Mr Hughes – Granger – I really want to go take a shower.’

He stepped closer. His eyes stared into hers unfalteringly. She could smell the cologne he was wearing. It was dry, like Kansas grass. Vetiver, probably, or Monsieur Worth. Somehow it seemed rather odd for a self-styled spiritual leader to be wearing Monsieur Worth.

‘You’re feeling tense, aren’t you?’ he asked her. ‘Your mind feels wound up like a clockspring, and you’re exhausted.’

She looked at Vee again, but Vee was enjoying every minute.

Granger raised his hands. They were long-fingered, with professionally-manicured nails. He wore no rings at all, nor bracelets.

‘Allow me to touch your forehead,’ he said. ‘I promise you that you will feel better.’

Season hesitated, but Vee said, ‘Go on. Season, he’s marvellous. You’ll feel so much better.’

Season suddenly realised that she was reacting like an uptight Wichita farmer’s wife. Don’t you go tampering with them things you don’t understand the nature of, young man. She smiled, and relaxed, and said, ‘All right I’m willing to try anything once. Provided it’s moral, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Granger, warmly. He extended his fingers, and with the cool tips of them, touched Season’s forehead just above her eyebrows. ‘Do you want to close your eyes?’ he asked her. ‘You don’t have to.’

‘Close them,’ prompted Vee. ‘You’ll be amazed what you see. You know, like the visions you get in back of your eyelids.’

‘Now,’ said Granger, ‘I want you to feel the power that is flowing through my hands in the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ. It is the power of healing, the power of forgiveness, the power of purity. All those feelings which were troubling you, all those uncertainties, they will all resolve themselves. Jesus hears your troubles, and knows of your indecision and he understands. He will help you.’

Strangely, Season began to feel soothed. She could imagine some kind of gentle warmth radiating from Granger’s fingertips, and smoothing out the knots and crumples that the day had made in her mind. She wasn’t sure about Jesus, but the reassurance that someone understood how uncertain she felt, and how anxious about her marriage – that reassurance in itself was enough to calm her.