Usher's Passing by Robert R. McCammon Page B

branches, outlined by moonlight. He'd never had such a vivid nightmare about the Pumpkin Man before. The thing had looked like a picture he'd seen of Lon Chaney in London After Midnight, all hypnotic eyes and vampire teeth. Got to cut down on those damned late-night "Creature Features," he told himself. They're not too good for the old beauty sleep, are—
    A floorboard creaked.
    There was a shape standing over his bed. Watching him.
    Before Rix could react—he was about to cry out like a child—a smoky feminine voice that dripped with honey whispered, "Shhhhh! It's me, sugah!"
    He found the switch to the bedside lamp after much fumbling, and turned it on. Squinting in the light, he looked up at Puddin' Usher, his brother's wife.
    She wore a diaphanous pink gown that clung to her body as if she'd been poured into it. Showing through the filmy material were the dark circles of her nipples and the darker vee between her thighs. She was about as naked as a woman could be without taking off her clothes. Her heavy blond mane cascaded around her bared shoulders. Puddin' wore full makeup, including bright red lipstick and champagne eyeshadow. Her eyes were dark brown, as unfathomable as Usherland's peaty lakes. She'd put on perhaps ten pounds since Rix last saw her, but she was still beautiful in a wild, coarse way. Her figure, stuffed into a red swimsuit a size too small, had won her the title of Miss North Carolina several years ago. In Atlantic City, she had twirled flaming batons in the talent competition, and she hadn't even made the finals. Her full-lipped, sexy mouth always made her look as if she was begging to be kissed—the harder, the better. But now her mouth had a bitter twist to it. Her face was taking on a hardness. Her eyes were vacant, disturbed. Rix smelled a wave of perfume—Chanel No. 5?—coming off her, but underneath that fragrance was a complex aroma of bourbon and body odor. In fact, Puddin' smelled as if she hadn't taken a bath in a week or more.
    "What are you doing in here? Where's Boone?"
    "Gone bye-bye," she said, and her mouth twisted again as she smiled. "Gone to that club of his to play poker till all fuckin' hours."
    Rix looked at his wristwatch on the bedside table. A quarter of three. He rubbed his eyes. "What happened? You two have a fight?"
    She shrugged. "Me and Boone have fights sometimes." She spoke with a thick backhills whang. "He left around midnight. They let him sleep at that club after he's lost his money and he's too drunk to drive home."
    "Do you make a habit of sneaking into people's rooms? You scared the hell out of me."
    "I didn't sneak. Sneakin' is when a door's locked." There were no locks on the doors to Rix's, Boone's, or Katt's bedrooms. Puddin' frowned at him. "You're lookin' kinda puny. You been sick or somethin'?"
    "Or something. Why don't you pour yourself into your room and go to sleep?"
    "I want to talk. Please. I've got to talk to somebody, or I'll go right fuckin' out of my bird!"
    Same old Puddin', Rix thought. When she was drunk, she could swear a truck driver's face blue. "What about?" he asked, against his better judgment.
    "If you was a gentleman, you'd ask me to sit down."
    He motioned reluctantly toward a chair. Puddin' chose to sit on the edge of the bed. Her gown hiked up over her thighs. There was a heart-shaped birthmark on her left knee. Damn, Rix thought; his body was responding, and he raised his knees under the sheet to make a tent. Puddin' picked at a long, copper-painted fingernail for a moment. "I cain't talk to nobody 'round here," she whined. "They don't like me."
    "I thought you and Katt were friends."
    "Katt's too busy for friends. Either she's out ridin' on the estate, or she's on that telephone. One time she talked to a guy in Venice for two whole fuckin' hours! Now who in hell can talk on a phone that long?"
    "Do you also listen in on people's phone conversations?"
    She tossed her head impudently. "I get bored. There ain't a whole hell of a