Page 40 of A Better World

Next, the Parson family’s mansion. She turned onto a private road along the northeastern edge of town. Apparently uninterested in the cause of the no-longer-lingering smoke, Hip played soundtrack. “It’s important everyone takes Civics class. I wish they’d done it back home. People would have cared more about supporting our democracy instead of being mad it wasn’t doing enough for them. It’s not capitalism’s fault. It’s the consumer society. Consumers can’t do anything except complain. It’s all they’re taught to do. That’s why they can’t handle democracy. They won’t work for it. PV’s Civics class is awesome. They’re teaching us that taking really good care of yourself is part of the social contract. If you’re not doing okay, then you’re a liability. You won’t be able to take care of anyone else. So, if you’re a parent with asthma, you’re morally obliged to live in a place with clean air or you aren’t goingto be any good to your kids. Cathy Bennett said it’s like putting your air mask on first when you’re on a plane.”

“Right,” Linda said, no longer paying attention. “Breathing’s important.” This fire must have been bad, or else it wouldn’t have dragged Rachel out of bed at dawn. People in town wouldn’t have been clutching one another like tragedy survivors.

What had happened? Why, in this deep and sinking way, did she feel like it had something to do with Gal Parker?

The Parsons’ security gate was crewed by two armed officers. As soon as she stopped, she regretted it. This was the founder’s house. Royalty, practically. What was she thinking, just driving up?

But then a security officer in a green shirt was at her window. She wore a sidearm, like many of the police there. According to the pamphlets, they were the only people permitted guns. “Who are you here to see?”

“Anouk Parson. But I don’t have to see her. I just wanted to drop off some donuts… They’re fresh. They’re still warm.”

The guard pointed. Having seemingly passed an invisible test, she didn’t radio to anyone. “Guesthouse four. It’s the one with the thatched roof and black beams. You can leave it there.”

Linda drove past the mansion, a giant Greek Revival with a wraparound porch, then took the road back, crossing a narrow bamboo bridge that opened to a clearing. Guest cottages one through three were of that same Greek Revival architecture: tall columns and external staircases that kissed at the center. Last, pushed against the hillside, she came to something different: a small bungalow with a rounded, fairy-tale roof whose white plaster façade was splotched with random bits of rusticated masonry.

Outside the tiny house was a penned-in flock of caladrius. She’d never seen so many together. They acted wary of one another, each taking up its own separate space. One was divided from the rest by mesh wire. It had been pecked, its hind plucked bald and scabby.

Newly energized by the prospect of the mysterious Cathy Bennett, Hip got out, bent down, and petted the injured one. “Hey, there. It’s Uncle Hip!”

The bird limped in his direction.

Linda looked through the cottage window. The main space was a studio with a writing desk. On the floor was a simple mattress, unmade and exposed. Did Anouk sleep there? It seemed odd, but not impossible.

Before she could leave the box and note, the door swung open. It was Keith Parson in his Beltane Crown, his body so bulky it filled the entire frame. He cut a scary, intimidating figure. Jesus, his neck was practically as big as his head.

“Hi! Is Anouk here?”

“It’s a bad time. Mommy’s with Granddaddy,” Keith answered in that same, perfect accent as Anouk’s. Mommy? Granddaddy? Suddenly, it was a lot easier to picture Anouk, the richest woman in town, sleeping on a mattress in a dirty, cluttered room.

“I’m Linda Farmer. I’m a friend. Is something wrong?” Linda asked, holding out the donuts.

Keith opened the carton and bit into a chocolate glazed while they were standing there, Linda still holding the box. “People bring sourdough.”

“What?”

“When you visit, you’resupposedto bring homemade sourdough. Something that takes effort. No one brings this sweet crap,” he said, even as he chewed. His crown was too small for his head. It made him look crazy. “Donuts are for babies and outsiders.”

Linda bit back her first response, which was to tell him to spit it out. There were plenty of people in the world, herself included, who were hungry right now, and loved donuts. “I’ll remember that for next time. Thank you for the advice. And congratulations. I saw your crowning.”

Keith smiled. Bits of chocolate donut stuck to his teeth. “How old is he?”

“What? How old is who?”

Keith pointed his chin at Hip, who’d somehow tamed the picked-on caladrius.Hey, guy, he was saying as he petted its back,you’re a good guy!

“Fifteen,” she said.

“You have any others?” he asked. She didn’t like his tone. It was predatory, somehow.

“He’s a twin.”

“Huh,” he said, taking another bite, his mouth open. “Are they strong? Good genes?” The crown was definitely made of bird bones. Some were white, others ivory tinged with yellow and brown. She could make out the vertebral column and a wing along the cap.

“Right. Lovely meeting you. Could you get the rest of the donuts to your mother?”

He looked her up and down in an angry-sexy way. TheI’m considering screwing you, but I want you to know I could do better and you’re too oldlook that she’d gotten a few times over the last couple of years and had never appreciated.

She headed back. Hip joined her. The bullied caladrius tried to follow and come home with them, pushing against sharp mesh wire. She considered the possibility that the injured bird was special and especially sweet. The more likely possibility was that her son was special and especially sweet.

---