[Oxrun Station] The Last Call of Mourning by Charles L. Grant Read Free Book Online

houses here were quiet, were old, were more shades of white and grey with black trim than she'd thought was possible in such a short space. There were no children here, nor pets of any note. It was, instead, a place of great spreading trees, of fragmented shade, of rose bushes and lawns and lemonade on the porch.
    The Lennons' home was in the block's center, and she pulled into the graveled drive with more than a touch of nerves and anticipation. The house was a single-story, with a peeling plaster fawn beside the front stoop, and a series of thick hanging plants now browned by the weather, hung from the clapboard from the door to the screened porch that bordered the drive. She sat, watched, saw no signs of living and wondered suddenly if perhaps she shouldn't have called them first.
    Iris would be reserved no matter what happened; but Paul needed time to gather himself— his clothes and his mind never could take surprises.
    A curtain fluttered in the house next door, and Cyd grinned as she slid from the car and moved to the front door. There was the unmistakable aroma, then, of baked bread and homemade soups, biscuits and cookies she knew were only memories, but she was glad that the memories at least still had not changed.
    She rang the bell, waited, was about to ring a second time when she heard someone calling from around the back. She hesitated, then moved quickly to the drive, trying to walk as quietly as possible along the gentle curve that swung to a garage at the house's far side. The lawn was vaguely unkempt, and at the edge of the grass were two wicker chairs; and in them the Lennons; bundled to the neck, each wearing a woolen cap pulled down to their ears.
    She stopped and smiled, hands clasped in front.
    They watched her for several long seconds before Paul suddenly launched himself from his chair, pale lips grinning as his hands took hers and held them.
    "Be darned, Iris," he said without turning around. "Be darned and damnation, it's Miss Cindy back to us for a chat."
    Iris, unchanged, only nodded. Once in recognition. She wore thick-lensed glasses that reflected the house, hiding her eyes though her mouth finally curled into a welcoming smile as her husband led Cyd to his chair and bade her sit. Then he stood facing the both of them, hands tight behind his back.
    "My Lord," he said, looking quickly from the girl to his wife. "My Lord, it's been . . . well, it's been over a year, hasn't it, dear?"
    Iris nodded.
    Like a movie set, Cyd thought as she examined the paint peeling from the house, the uncut browning grass, the clutter by the garage. The front is one thing, the back another.
    "What do you say, Missy?"
    She broadened the smile that was splitting her cheeks. "I'm sorry, Paul, I was thinking. What did you say?"
    "He said," Iris whispered, "would you like something to drink?"
    "No. No, but thanks." She gestured at the chairs, then, and the weak setting sun. "Isn't it awfully cold to be sitting out here like this? I'd think you'd catch your death."
    Paul, his neck wrapped in a crimson muffler that matched to a shade his quilted hunting jacket, chuckled and shook his head. "Sun's the best for you, Missy, even this time of year. We try to get at least an hour a day. Vitamin D, you understand." He paused as if waiting for Iris to comment, then squatted easily to his haunches and made a fist of both hands. "Well, what brings you here, Missy? You don't mind if we still call you Missy, do you? A lot of years' habit that one is. You certainly have better things to do than see old fogies like us."
    "Ain't old," Iris said.
    "True enough," he said quickly.
    They waited.
    While she tried to inspect them without seeming rude. At least in their middle-seventies they were but apparently still well in control. Paul's hawked nose was slightly red, Iris' stub peeling dry skin: no purple beneath the eyes, the chins if anything even more pointed, and not even Paul could hide the taut wattles. The crusty New England