Usher's Passing by Robert R. McCammon Read Free Book Online Page B

"Boone brought me a couple of gifts in New York, too, Mother."
    Boone laughed without humor. "How about that thing, Rixy? I thought you'd like it! Pet shop two blocks from the De Peyser had just what I was looking for. Fella who sold it to me said it was just like the ones they use in monster flicks."
    "I figure I screwed things up for you. You probably wanted me to find that thing first, and you thought the shock might trigger an attack. Then, when I went into the Quiet Room, I'd stumble into your second surprise."
    "Don't say that word." Margaret was staring fixedly into the fire. " 'Screwed' is not a decent word." Her voice was calm and throaty—the voice of a woman used to giving commands.
    "It's not the kind of word a famous author ought to use, is it, Momma?" As always, Boone leaped on every opportunity to score points with their mother against Rix. "Now you just sit right there and I'll run get you a sweater." When he passed Rix on his way to the door, Boone flashed a quick, tight smile.
    "Boone?" Margaret called, and her older son paused. "Make sure the sweater won't clash, dear."
    "Yes, Momma," Boone replied, and left the room.
    Rix walked toward her. As he neared, he again caught a whiff of that foul aroma, like a dead rat moldering in one of the walls. Margaret picked up a can of Lysol pine air freshener from a table beside her chair and began to spray clouds of mist around her. When she was through, the room smelled like a pine woods full of dead animals.
    Rix stood beside his mother. She was still trying to stall time. At fifty-eight, Margaret Usher was desperately fighting to remain thirty-five. Her hair was cut stylishly short and dyed a coppery auburn. Several trips to a California plastic surgeon had left the skin stretched so tightly over her sharp cheekbones that it looked as if it were about to rip. Her makeup was thicker than Rix recalled, and the shade of lipstick she'd chosen was much too red. Tiny lines were creeping around her mouth and nesting in the corners of her pale green eyes. Her body remained sleek except for a bit of heaviness around the hips and stomach, and Rix remembered Katt telling him his mother feared unsightly flab like the Black Plague. On her slim, graceful hands she wore a stunning variety of rings—diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. Pinned to her gown was a brooch whose diamonds glittered in the firelight. Sitting motionless, she appeared to Rix as yet another perfect furnishing of the Gatehouse, never meant to be touched.
    Her expression was disconsolate and helpless. A feeling of sadness for her came over Rix. What price had she paid, he wondered, to live as the mistress of Usherland?
    Suddenly she turned her head and looked at him. It was the same kind of vague stare one would give a stranger. "You've lost weight," she noted. "Have you been sick?"
    "I've felt better."
    "You look like a walking skeleton."
    He shrugged uneasily, not wanting to be reminded of his physical ailments. "I'll be all right."
    "Not living the way you do. Hand to mouth in a distant city, without your family. I don't see how you've stood it this long." A light glimmered in her eyes, and she reached out to take his hand. "But you've come home to stay this time, haven't you? We've needed you here. I've had your old room readied for you. Everything's just as it used to be, now that you're home to stay."
    "Mom," Rix said gently, "I can't stay. I just came for a few days, to see Dad."
    "Why?" Her grip tightened. "Why can't you stay here, where you belong?"
    "I don't belong at Usherland." He knew it was pointless to be drawn into this discussion yet again. Inevitably there would be an argument. "I've got to get back to work."
    "You mean that writing you do?" Margaret released his hand and stood up to admire her new pearls in the mirror. "I'd hardly call that work, Rix. At least not the kind of occupation you're capable of. Did you see these pearls your brother brought me? Aren't they nice?" She frowned and ran a