The Landlord. Kristin Hunter

the wind shrieking past his ear. “Get tough. That’s what you have to do. Encase that soft slob heart of yours in solid steel. Never believe any of their stories. No matter what they tell you, say to yourself, ‘They’re lying. I know they’re lying.’ Get up in the morning and say, ‘I’m tougher. I’ll get them before they get me.’ ”

      “Who?” he shouted back.

      “Your tenants, of course. Who else, idiot? Pay attention to me!”

      “I wish you’d pay attention to your driving,” he complained, for she was attacking the streets like obstacle courses, skimming curbs and corners, narrowly missing parked cars and poles. Finally they skidded to a stop in front of his house, a ten-minute drive in three.

      He sat there, stupefied, for another minute.

      “Come on, Elgar,” she said, sensing his reluctance, seizing his hand and pulling hard. “I wonder how long it would have taken you to come back here if I hadn’t decided to drag you?”

      “Only a hundred years. Or thereabouts,” he said as he was led inside.

      But after Lanie’s direct, “Miss Perkins, you’re my absolute idol, I have every one of your records, I was playing them tonight, and I told Elgar, I said, ‘Elgar, I don’t care what time of night it is, I have to meet her right away!’ ” Marge melted like a huge slab of Hershey exposed to intense warmth.

      “Well just come right on in, honey. You hungry? There’s some Creole rice on the stove.”

      “Oh, your famous perlo. I read about it in somebody’s book, Langston Hughes, wasn’t it? I’d love some. So would Elgar. Wouldn’t you, Elgar?”

      She was matching Marge’s sugariness, granule for granule. It was sickening. Elgar thought he might want to throw up instead.

      “Naturally he wants some, he’s always hungry,” Marge said, dipping up a rosy bowlful.

      “Here, let me do that,” Lanie said, taking the spoon from Marge’s hand. “Don’t you work now. We came to hear you sing.”

      “Awww,” Marge said, clasping her hands behind her back. She hung her head and shifted shyly from foot to foot like an embarrassed child. In a rosy-flowered cotton playdress, size 52. “Awww, it’s been twenty years since I sang for anybody.”

      “Oh, please,” Lanie coaxed. “Come on. ‘C. C. Rider.’ Nobody can do it like you.”

      “Awww,” Marge said again. It was unbelievable, the resemblance to an elephantine toddler asked to recite a Bible verse in Sunday school. “Aw, no, I can’t be playing the piano this time of night.” She winked and added, “Landlord wouldn’t like it.”

      “Oh, you do have a piano!” Lanie shrieked in delight, bounding coltlike into the next room. She was being unbelievable too; unbelievable and unbearable. Elgar could not tell who was sincere and who was putting on an act around here. Probably a little bit of both apiece.

      He followed them morosely into a dim front parlor furnished in early Lumpy-Gloomy, with more crazy scrapbook pages for walls and stiff lace doilies blooming on every flat surface. Squatting evilly in the center was the only item in the world darker and more massive than Marge herself: a square black Victorian piano.

      “Hardly ever touch it any more,” Marge protested as she was led to the stool. “Besides, it’s out of tune.”

      Finally she said firmly, “No, child, I won’t play. I’ll just sing.” And did so, sitting erect, hands folded in her lap, with odd, childlike dignity.

      Elgar, never musical, fought down the urge to headlong flight that had seized him the moment he started to climb his stairs. He hung around bravely until she got to the line that went,

      Gonna buy me a shotgun, long as I am tall . . .

      Then he found himself edging rapidly toward the door, unnoticed by the rapt pair. What the hell. It was their party anyway, let them enjoy it. He sneaked out into the hall to light a cigarette with shaking hands.

      A strong whoosh of wind instantly snuffed out the match for him. A soft flannel bundle like someone’s bag of laundry landed in Elgar’s sensitive middle, knocking his breath away. Thinking that a pillow fight was in progress, instantly angry and ready to retaliate, Elgar gripped the object firmly. But when he raised it from the floor it developed appendages that clawed and kicked and a hard little cannonball that butted him violently in the chest.

      The second match he struck revealed the lively bundle under his left arm to be Walter Gee Copee. Dressed in flannel pajamas, feet, drop seat, and all. Eyes screwed tight, and bawling.

      “Well now,” Elgar said, lifting the boy to face him, “well now, what have I got here? Feels too solid to be a ghost. Too wiggly to be laundry. Can it be a sleepwalker?”

      Walter Gee pummeled all of the accessible surfaces a dozen more times with hard little fists, then flung his arms around Elgar’s neck, sobbing convulsively.

      The spasms shaking the tense little body invaded Elgar’s frame and frightened him. Until now his own suffering had kept him distant from that of others. What, he wondered wildly, were the symptoms of appendicitis? Epilepsy? Other seizures with possible brain damage?

      All he could manage was a series of gruff there, there, theres accompanied by awkward pat, pat, pats. He was aware of his inadequacy. Yet somehow did not want to call Lanie or Marge, did not want to share this problem with anybody.

      “My pop-pop crazy,” Walter babbled. “Say he gone kill my mama. ‘Bang bang,’ he say. ‘Bang bang.’ My mama run away. My bubba, he run too. I all alone. I scared. It’s dark down there.”

      This disjointed message delivered, Walter’s shoulders gradually stilled. An incredibly tiny hand found its way into Elgar’s. And held on with incredible strength.

      “Well now,” Elgar said, swinging the boy down, supporting the hard little rump briefly in the palm of his hand before releasing Walter Gee’s weight to the floor, but letting the hand hang onto his for security (whose?), “well now, I know about the dark. If you’re afraid of it, the only thing to do is go to sleep. Then when you wake up, it’s light again. Ho. Only thing to do. So. Back to bed we go, ho. Ho. Ho. Ho.”

      Wondering, as he heard himself produce this glib patter, how the kid could possibly believe it, since he had never been able to believe it himself. Case in point: tonight, running to Lanie rather than face a dark room.

      “Hold tight to my hand, ho. Off to yum-yum land, ho. Where is your room, Walter Gee? Show me where.”

      After a swipe of flannel sleeve across sniffles, Walter led the way to a door that opened into the first-floor hall. Inside were a pair of narrow bunkbeds, the top one empty, the bottom one very slept-in. Elgar, smoothing its disorder, was relieved that a trip through Sitting Bull’s council chamber would not be necessary.

      “I don’t like my pop-pop,” Walter Gee announced as covers were tucked in tightly under his chin. It felt safer that way, Elgar knew from experience.

      “Well now, fella,” Elgar said, “those are mighty strong words. You should think twice before you say them. I always do.”

      The next words were very soft and dreamlike: almost, but not quite, soft enough for Elgar to have imagined them.

      “You be my pop-pop, Landlord.”

      Fortunately no reply was required. A soft, contented snore rose from the pillow. A small hand still clung to his large, dumbfounded one. Elgar, gently disengaging and slipping outside, could not help feeling large and strong in comparison.

      He paused thoughtfully at the foot of the stairs and checked himself over routinely. Chest, arms, gut. Yep, solid. Firmer even than on that fine morning, seemingly ages ago, when he had set out to buy sundry items of hardware.

      Unearthly voices drifted down to him: two witches, heads together over the rice cauldron, cooking up an infernal