you mean, doesn’t need one?”
Cosworth sighed. “If he doesn’t block free travel into and around your home, he doesn’t need one.”
“Isn’t there a law prohibiting this sort of ballyhoo in front of a man’s private castle?”
Cosworth tapped an ash into the pot of the plant on his desk. “Well, they can’t carry picket signs and they can’t tell the neighborhood kids things like you murder babies, but, yep, they can gather to save your soul.”
“ My goddamn soul is just fine, thank you! ”
Cosworth really didn’t blame the doctor for giving him an earache. “You could all just go somewhere else tonight. Not be there.”
“Would you turn tail and run?”
“Not me. This is America.”
“Says it all, doesn’t it?”
The phone receiver went dead in Cosworth’s ear. “Poor bastard,” he muttered, and then he relit the dying ember on the end of his cigar.
The guest cottage that served as Dorian’s and Glynis’s home was located just inside the south gate of Hawthorne Manor. It was small but cozy, and Craig had always been more comfortable there than in the big house. With its bright chintz curtains, simple overstuffed furniture, and scattering of homey knickknacks, it was a warm and inviting place. The only telling influence of the Hawthornes’ wealth was the original Norman Rockwell painting that hung on the living room wall.
“His allergies and asthma are really bad.” Glynis led Craig and Kamelia into the bedroom where Dorian lay. “When he gets excited or nervous he has troubles. I’ve put the houseplants back outside, and I’ve been keeping the windows closed. I even had Marek put a new filter in the air conditioner. But nothing is helping.”
“How ya doing, you old fart?” Craig sat on the edge of Dorian’s bed.
“Don’t like being old.”
Craig nodded. “It’s a bitch, ain’t it? But, one of the cool things about our heritage is that our aging slows as we creep forward.”
“That, my dear boy, is both a blessing and a curse.”
Craig pulled his stethoscope out of his bag, placed it on Dorian’s chest, and listened to his noisy bronchi. “Rock, rattle, and roll.” He took Dorian’s temperature and examined his glands and throat. “Aunt Glynis’s diagnosis hits the nail on the head. Best thing you can do is rest. Try to sleep.”
“Sleep?” Dorian asked, his voice croaky. “With that crazy preacher breathing down our throats? He’ll be here in just a few hours. How can I sleep?”
Kamelia pulled some small blue cloth bags out of her pocket and handed one to Dorian. “Here’s an amulet. Melanie, Jason, and I made them. It’ll help protect you.”
Dorian took it and immediately began to sneeze and cough. He thrust it back at her. “Herbs in it. Can’t handle it right now.”
Kamelia’s face reddened, and she stuffed them back into her jeans. “I … I didn’t think. Sorry.”
Craig grasped Kamelia’s hands and gave them a comforting squeeze, then placed them on Dorian’s solar plexus. He put his own hands on his uncle’s head, and within moments he could feel the connection of his and Kamelia’s energies as they coursed through Dorian’s body.
Dorian tensed at first, and then began to relax. “Oh, yes. Nice.”
“This’ll mellow you out and start the fences mending.” Craig watched Dorian’s face relax. He loved and respected the old man who had given his all for love. It was a story Craig heard as a small boy from his grandmother, Beatrice, during one of her many wine-sotted tirades. The story of Glynis’s and Dorian’s romance, and the violence his grandfather used to try to derail it, was one of the many reasons Craig had chosen to go his own way in life.
“Will he be better now?” Glynis asked. Her arthritic fingers struggled to tuck a stray lock back up into the hairnet that held her silver hair.
Craig nodded. “He needs some Z ’s. Let’s make back to the Land of Oz for now and leave him be.”
“Yes, the
Cosworth sighed. “If he doesn’t block free travel into and around your home, he doesn’t need one.”
“Isn’t there a law prohibiting this sort of ballyhoo in front of a man’s private castle?”
Cosworth tapped an ash into the pot of the plant on his desk. “Well, they can’t carry picket signs and they can’t tell the neighborhood kids things like you murder babies, but, yep, they can gather to save your soul.”
“ My goddamn soul is just fine, thank you! ”
Cosworth really didn’t blame the doctor for giving him an earache. “You could all just go somewhere else tonight. Not be there.”
“Would you turn tail and run?”
“Not me. This is America.”
“Says it all, doesn’t it?”
The phone receiver went dead in Cosworth’s ear. “Poor bastard,” he muttered, and then he relit the dying ember on the end of his cigar.
The guest cottage that served as Dorian’s and Glynis’s home was located just inside the south gate of Hawthorne Manor. It was small but cozy, and Craig had always been more comfortable there than in the big house. With its bright chintz curtains, simple overstuffed furniture, and scattering of homey knickknacks, it was a warm and inviting place. The only telling influence of the Hawthornes’ wealth was the original Norman Rockwell painting that hung on the living room wall.
“His allergies and asthma are really bad.” Glynis led Craig and Kamelia into the bedroom where Dorian lay. “When he gets excited or nervous he has troubles. I’ve put the houseplants back outside, and I’ve been keeping the windows closed. I even had Marek put a new filter in the air conditioner. But nothing is helping.”
“How ya doing, you old fart?” Craig sat on the edge of Dorian’s bed.
“Don’t like being old.”
Craig nodded. “It’s a bitch, ain’t it? But, one of the cool things about our heritage is that our aging slows as we creep forward.”
“That, my dear boy, is both a blessing and a curse.”
Craig pulled his stethoscope out of his bag, placed it on Dorian’s chest, and listened to his noisy bronchi. “Rock, rattle, and roll.” He took Dorian’s temperature and examined his glands and throat. “Aunt Glynis’s diagnosis hits the nail on the head. Best thing you can do is rest. Try to sleep.”
“Sleep?” Dorian asked, his voice croaky. “With that crazy preacher breathing down our throats? He’ll be here in just a few hours. How can I sleep?”
Kamelia pulled some small blue cloth bags out of her pocket and handed one to Dorian. “Here’s an amulet. Melanie, Jason, and I made them. It’ll help protect you.”
Dorian took it and immediately began to sneeze and cough. He thrust it back at her. “Herbs in it. Can’t handle it right now.”
Kamelia’s face reddened, and she stuffed them back into her jeans. “I … I didn’t think. Sorry.”
Craig grasped Kamelia’s hands and gave them a comforting squeeze, then placed them on Dorian’s solar plexus. He put his own hands on his uncle’s head, and within moments he could feel the connection of his and Kamelia’s energies as they coursed through Dorian’s body.
Dorian tensed at first, and then began to relax. “Oh, yes. Nice.”
“This’ll mellow you out and start the fences mending.” Craig watched Dorian’s face relax. He loved and respected the old man who had given his all for love. It was a story Craig heard as a small boy from his grandmother, Beatrice, during one of her many wine-sotted tirades. The story of Glynis’s and Dorian’s romance, and the violence his grandfather used to try to derail it, was one of the many reasons Craig had chosen to go his own way in life.
“Will he be better now?” Glynis asked. Her arthritic fingers struggled to tuck a stray lock back up into the hairnet that held her silver hair.
Craig nodded. “He needs some Z ’s. Let’s make back to the Land of Oz for now and leave him be.”
“Yes, the
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