Goldenland Past Dark Read Online Free Page A

eyes.
    Across from Webern, Al sat slumped; his chin rested on one gigantic palm. He’d lost his appetite just halfway through his third stack of pancakes. Beside him, Vlad and Fydor argued in Russian, completing each other’s sentences even as they disagreed. To ease his tension, Eng sat on the floor, legs twisted into a full lotus, and beside Webern, Hank brushed Ginger so hard that her orange fur fluffed out in all directions. Only Brunhilde, who sat at the head of the table, smoothing the long curls of her beard, appeared to have her mind on other things.
    After picking out her tenth song on the jukebox, Nepenthe returned to the table. The waitress followed her, hanging back nervously.
    “You guys are like a bunch of existentialists. Stop it with the moping, already.” Nepenthe pulled out the chair next to Brunhilde and flung herself down onto it. “Jesus God.”
    The first strains of “Mack the Knife” filled the air. Several feet away, the waitress timidly waved a receipt.
    “I have the check for y’all,” she offered. Her voice raised an octave in forced levity. “Now, who gets it?”
    “Give it here.” Nepenthe turned around and reached toward her. Between the glove and her sleeve, an inch of flaky grey skin revealed itself. The waitress smiled, but the receipt trembled in her hand.
    “All righty.” The waitress continued to smile as she edged around the table.
    “No, give it to me, I said.” Nepenthe straightened her veil, but behind it her green eyes burned.
    “Here you go.” The waitress reached in and dropped the check. “Oops.”
    Nepenthe snatched it out of the air. Her tight grip crumpled the lower corner. She stared at the waitress, who grinned back, frozen with terror.
    “Now, let’s see, what’s the damage.” The waitress darted back into the kitchen. Nepenthe unfolded the bill against the table and peered through her veil at the list of charges. “Who ordered the tomato juice? That you, Eng?”
    Since Webern had first met her, Nepenthe had come a long way in controlling her temper. Once, several towns back, a saleswoman in a department store had refused to let her try on a dress, and Nepenthe had thrown a tantrum, knocking over mannequins and screaming about “contagion” until two security guards dragged her out of the store, hissing like a snake. She hadn’t talked to anyone for hours afterwards, hadn’t even come out of her tent for dinner. When Webern brought her a plate of cold franks and beans, she would only say, “I wish to God that bitch knew who my father was. I just wish to God she knew that.” Webern had nodded, not knowing quite how to respond. Even he didn’t know who Nepenthe’s father was. She’d never told anyone her last name.
    “I can’t make sense of this.” Nepenthe shoved the check away and leaned back in her chair. “Somebody else divide it up, huh?”
    “Maybe we shouldn’t pay yet,” said Webern.
    Brunhilde reached over and picked up the check from the table. She removed her pince-nez from her pocket and carefully scrutinized the numbers.
    “We have to keep waiting for Dr. Show. We should order another pot of coffee or something.”
    “Let us not be like little children. We cannot stay here all night.” Brunhilde lifted her embroidered handbag up onto the table and reached inside for a handful of dimes. She stacked them deliberately beside her plate.
    “Maybe not, but where are we supposed to go?” Explorer Hank scratched the white fur of Ginger’s belly. “Bernie’s right. Doesn’t make sense to cut out just yet.”
    “I suggest we all check into a decent hotel. In the morning we will return here to retrieve Schoenberg, if he has arrived at all.” She folded her hands and looked around the table at each face. Though she was probably only in her early forties, her beard made her look older at such moments—even presidential. Maybe part of it was the way she dressed, in watered silk evening gowns that draped like old opera curtains.