The wake-up

10

"I still don't know why I'm the only one who can fix coffee," grumbled Cecil, bumping the table, the Pyrex pot held high. " 'Cecil get me some coffee.' 'Cecil make me some eggs…' "

Missy looked up from dealing out her tarot cards, annoyed at being interrupted, the precognitive flow totally ruined now. She scooped up the cards and then straightened them as her brother refilled her cup. Normally, she would have been furious with him for distracting her while she was doing her morning reading, but after last night's triumph, she was willing to overlook his stupidity.

She watched Cecil's clumsy fingers holding the pot, coarse red hairs in waves across the back of his hands. Hands just like his daddy's. Their mama had hated those ugly hands, those farmer's hands, but she had put up with them, and that was her own damn fault. Cecil reached out and steadied her cup as he poured. He'd be thinking of filling the cup until it overflowed, imagining the scalding coffee slopping onto the table, splashing her tarot cards. Cecil might be thinking that, but he didn't do it, stopping so that the fresh coffee was exactly one inch from the rim, just like she had taught him. Missy could train an orangutan to be a proper English butler if she put her mind to it.

"How come it's always me on kitchen duty?" Cecil scratched his belly. "That's a fair question, isn't it?"

Missy picked up the deck of cards, shuffled. She was wearing only a loosely knotted black silk robe, her blond hair unbraided now, a wild corona after the party.

She cut the deck, flipped up the top card. "That's why."

Cecil peered at the card.

"Ten of swords." Missy tapped the card with a finger. "That's you, Cecil. Ten of swords. Means you exist to serve the queen of swords."

"That's her, Cecil." Clark snickered from the other side of the table, sitting there in just a pair of heart-patterned boxers.

"Kitchen duty, yard duty, fucking doorman duty, ten of swords or not, it just ain't right." Cecil sat back, rolled one of his syrup-soaked pancakes into a tube, and took a bite, pointing it at her. "You should hire beaners to do all that, not put it off on family."

"I've told you before: I won't have strangers living with us, poking their noses into our affairs." Missy wiped her lip with the tip of her pinkie. "You don't like it, you can get your ass back to sweet home Alabama and I'll send for Cousin Leroy. I expect he'll be happy to take your place."

"Leroy is a retard," said Cecil.

"Then he won't have any trouble filling your shoes." Clark pushed aside his half-eaten sunny-side up eggs, looked over at Missy. "What's wrong?"

"You're beautiful, baby," Missy leaned over and kissed him, her tongue probing his mouth. "I didn't hurt you last night, did I?"

Clark fingered the welt on his neck, shook his head.

"That's good." Neither of them had slept after the party finally tapered off, too excited, too happy. The caterers had packed up and moved out by 4:00 a.m., just in time for the cleanup crew to take over, twelve Mexican women, who had scrubbed, cleaned, and vacuumed the house, all under Cecil's watchful eye.

"The party went all right, didn't it?" asked Clark.

"Sure, long as Cecil is here to fetch and shuffle, help people with their coats and tell them where to take a piss, everything's fine," said Cecil, retreating to the kitchen.

"The party was just perfect, baby." Missy beamed at Clark. "Betty B said she was going to give us a big write-up in her column."

"When does it come out?" asked Clark. "Tuesday?"

"Alison Peabody was positively green," Missy bubbled, her black robe rustling with every movement. "You see the way she was looking at the artwork, walking from room to room, trying not to let her jaw drop? Kept asking who helped me with it. Wait until she reads the article, sees the pictures. She's going to need a deep-tissue massage just to unkink her asshole."

"Vlad and Arturo didn't stay long." Clark tossed back his stringy hair. "I tried to make them comfortable, but-"

"No way to make them comfortable," chided Missy. "Arturo's too uptight, and Vlad… well, he just doesn't know how to act around normal people."

"I offered him something would have mellowed him right out," said Clark, "but he just shook his head."

"Oh please. You know Vlad's not going to do any drugs. That boy had more drugs shot into him than you and I could take in a dozen lifetimes."

"Vlad should count his blessings."

"Don't talk foolish, baby. Those doctors treated him like a lab rat."

"Sure, poor Vlad, let's cry in our beer for poor Vlad," Cecil called from the kitchen. "I ask for a little help with the chores, and it's 'Go fuck yourself, Cecil.' "

"Vlad is special," said Missy.

"I'm special, too," replied Cecil, coming back to the table.

Missy glared at Cecil. "Vlad is like a unicorn. He's one of a kind. You, Cecil? Shit."

Cecil threw his dish towel down and stomped off toward the media room. Probably going to watch porno or World's Fastest Police Chases II, III, and IV, drinking bourbon and talking to himself. Special? He was about as special as a toilet seat.

Missy smiled, sipped her coffee. She stared out the window, watching the cold green sea. Clark loved the ocean-the sight, the smell, the rush. Called it 'Mother Ocean' and all that other surf nonsense, but when she looked at the waves, all she thought about were sharks and jellyfish and fat octopi waiting to pull somebody under. Octopi, that was the right word for when there was more than one octopus. Not many people knew that.

Clark stood up. "I'm going to take a shower."

Missy watched him stride toward their bedroom, slim and lean and skin so smooth, like he'd never done a day's work in his life. She hummed softly to herself. It had been a great party last night. Not bad for a girl who had grown up without ever getting a birthday party, none with a cake anyway. She had shown them. Shown them all. She crossed her legs, reveled in the sound the silk made. Best money could buy. Fuck those symphonies Alison Peabody was always going on about; good silk was all the music she needed. Next thing, the very next thing, she was going to step up the business. The real business. Clark was a genius, but he was too easygoing for his own good, willing to waste his time with those damn surf bums. Well, not if she had any say about it. They had already come a lot further than he had ever expected, but she wasn't surprised. Wasn't satisfied, either. You let your guard down, you thought you could just kick back and ride the waves, next thing you knew, you were fucked good and fucked permanent.

Her coffee was cold, but she didn't feel like calling to Cecil and telling him to brew up a fresh pot. She replayed the party in her mind. All those guests and neighbors, the fancy ones, the rich ones who had it all handed to them, the sportswear industry contacts and country club honchos, they had all been there. It had taken three years, but she had finally cracked the social scene. She was an equal now; she was one of them.

She was glad that cutiepie from the art gallery had been there to see it. Frank, the sharp-dressed man. She reached for the tarot cards, curious about him, but Cecil had thrown her off. Tonight was soon enough to deal out a reading on Frank. She remembered hearing his voice last night, saw him standing at the front door while Cecil gave him a hard time about being on the guest list, Frank not mad, not throwing his weight around, just beaming, like he had it all under control. She shifted her legs again, the silk warm as a man's breath. That grin of Frank's… Clark was lucky she was true-blue.

The front gate buzzed.

"Cecil!" No response from that useless toad. Missy strode to the front door, checked the security monitor.

Thorpe smiled at her from the screen. "Good morning."

Missy smiled back, even though he couldn't see her. She glanced over at the tarot cards. "You believe in fate, Frank?" She pressed the button that opened the electronic gate before he could answer.