The Heavens Rise by Christopher Rice Read Free Book Online

himself to look up from the designs he was tracing in the white tablecloth with his dinner fork. (The kid’s slow, repetitive motions reminded Marissa of some Hitchcock film, something with Gregory Peck and ski tracks in the snow.) He was far more handsome than both of his parents, with his high, sculpted cheekbones and his jet-black hair, slicked back like some 1950s matinee idol.
    “Careful, folks,” Donald Ferriot said, with a tip of his wineglass at Marissa. “The press is here.”
    She was embarrassed by how pleased she was to be recognized, especially by a man of Donald Ferriot’s alleged stature. But she tipped her glass in return. “Just here to cover the awards ceremony. All comments at this table are officially off the record.”
    There was a light ripple of laughter from the other guests, but not one of them bothered with an introduction. Heidi Ferriot, on the other hand, gazed at Marissa mirthlessly.
    “I know everyone who works on the society page at the Picayune, ” she finally said. “And I don’t remember you.”
    “You wouldn’t. We’ve never met.”
    “Yes, that I gathered.”
    “Also, I don’t do society columns and I don’t work for the Picayune .”
    “She writes for Kingfisher, ” Donald Ferriot said.
    “Ah,” Heidi Ferriot said, and the sound was more breath than syllable. “That makes sense,” she whispered.
    Because Kingfisher is more liberal than the Picayune. And you’re black. And not the kind of café-au-lait, is-she-or-isn’t-she kind of black my kind of white lady is more comfortable with. And oh, by the way, how the hell did your black ass end up at my table?
    Marissa told herself to cut it out, to stop letting the voices of her own insecurities masquerade as insight. Sometimes being the odd one out meant you had to give other people the chance to show you they weren’t always—
    “And what do your people do?” Heidi Ferriot asked.
    “I’m sorry. My people ?”
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t say you people. I said—”
    “I heard what you said,” Marissa answered. “My mother’s retired now.”
    “And your husband?”
    “Haven’t met him yet.”
    “And your mother. What did she do before she . . . retired ?” There was too much emphasis on the last word for Marissa’s liking. It suggested that in Heidi Ferriot’s world, black women didn’t retire, they just went on the dole.
    “She was a dance teacher.”
    “So at some point, presumably, she was a dancer ?” Heidi asked.
    “When she was younger, yes. She taught children, mostly. Through church groups and the like. She had her own studio for a while but she gave it up when I was a girl.”
    “But not on Airline Highway. And not with a pole, I presume.”
    The brittle silence around her seemed to confirm it: Yes, the bowed heads and pinched mouths of the other guests seemed to say. That bitch just called your mother a whore.
    Marissa was not an investigative journalist, but she was a columnist, and columnists lived off of access just like anyone else in the business. And you didn’t get access by shooting off your mouth at fancy parties and taking things too personally. And yes, this may not have been the most significant event of her career, and the end of the night probably wouldn’t deliver the makings of more than a passable column. But still. But still, but still, but still  . . .
    “Marissa?”
    It took her a few seconds to realize it was the kid who’d spoken. And he’d used her first name as if they’d been lifelong friends.
    “I asked you if you knew your snakes.”
    Asked. How long had he been speaking to her before she’d heard him? Was she on the verge of having a stroke? Was she really that angry?
    “My snakes?”
    “Yes. Your snakes.”
    “I’m not sure what you mean. I don’t own any snakes.”
    Marissa was surprised to see that Donald and Heidi were looking not at her but at their son, and their expressions were suddenly tense. Were they afraid he was about to divulge