Michael McDowell - Candles Burning

Ford’s lips barely made a smile.

“So I would have to listen harder,” I went on.

Ford shook his head with incredulity.

“She didn’t care what he had to say. She wanted to hear from Cosima.”

“Well?” Ford rubbed his hands together in exaggerated anticipation.

“I might tell you someday,” I said.

He grimaced. “Damn, Calley. That’s not fair.”

The water rolled something, rolled it toward the sand, end over end, gently, onto the quartz sand that once was marble, Alabama marble.

The wind moved over my face like a caressing hand. The living intruded: Cleonie and Perdita, both still alive though widowed, both still devout AME ladies, living with Roger and his wife and their pack of kids in Ontario. Roger hybridizes prizewinning daylilies. Roger kept the ransom money for me until he was threatened with the draft. When I found out, I had him take half the money and all his kinfolk and go to Canada. He maintained the rest in accounts that I could access when needed until after Isobel Mank’s death. It was Cleonie and Perdita leaving that ultimately shut down Merrymeeting, as Merry Verlow never succeeded in replacing them with adequate help.

After a little while, I opened my eyes again and walked slowly toward the water of the new pass. Ford followed me.

The margin of water and sand was sloppy as unset Jell-O. The water advanced and retreated, advanced and retreated. The moon was in the water, I thought, but of course it could not be. Nonetheless, there it was, as if it had fallen into the water, and sat there on the sand, its belated headstone. How silly of me, I thought. The moon looked back at me from its one whole eye socket.

“Ford,” I said.

He moved closer at once.

I poked a finger at the water. “Do you see it?”

His gaze followed the line of sight my finger drew. I heard the sharp intake of his breath and then he stopped to untie and remove his shoes. He stepped into the water, where he bent and with both hands groped below the surface. He raised the cold moon in his hands, and the water ran from its broken face. I thought I knew that face. I held out my hands and he put the skull into them. It had no jaw, of course; it could not speak. I raised the broken thing to my lips and kissed its brow that the elements had polished to perfection.

Ford made a crooking sound. “Who,” he began and then stopped, dripping and overcome. “Daddy?”

“You are my sunshine,” I whispered. “You make me happy.”

“It’s the beautiful shore,” said Ford suddenly, as if he had just remembered. “You sang it at the cemetery.”

A smart crack of wings startled me. I looked up: A blackbird branded itself against the sun. Out of the blinding sun fire came a drawn-out, rude laugh: uuuuhhhk.

“A mix of magic realism and Southern Gothic, this stunning collaboration between King and McDowell… moves at a hypnotic pace, like an Alabama water moccasin slipping through black water.”

“Spooky… Supernatural elements, complicated schemes, and a neatly portrayed sense of place—was the sunny Gulf beach ever so threatening?—make this a shivery fun novel for summer.”

“[A] lightly supernatural confection… King completes it beautifully as to tone, aura, and flavor, and it’s funny and intriguing, magnetically readable.”

“A superb paranormal gothic thriller that grips readers from start to finish… Tabitha King completes the late Michael McDowell’s tale so that no one will be able to ascertain who wrote what nor care as the growing suspense to an anticipated High Noon showdown is what the audience will appreciate.”

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

CANDLES BURNING

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the authors

Copyright © 2006 by Tabitha King and Michael McDowell.

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eISBN : 978-0-425-21570-8

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