Busted Flush

“Ana’s overdone it. Again.” From the sound of it, this was a regular occurrence. “The Reverend’s helping her. And the mayor’s blown a fuse but Jerusha can deal with him. The zombies don’t seem to be a problem right now anyway. They’re just slumped over the steering wheels like someone cut their strings. Or maybe they’re playing dead.” She paused, then looked at Ellen worriedly. “That old woman I blew up . . . Hoodoo Mama’s work?”

“Who else? I saw her at the hospital,” Ellen said. “Nick did, too. And Miss Partridge knew her from way back. Young girl, Creole-looking, red streak in her hair. Looks like a boy.”

Jonathan looked confused. “She was at the hospital?”

“You were paying attention to the vending machines.” Ellen glanced to the crowd, but Joey Hebert had vanished in the throng. “Do you have anything to sketch with?”

“You’re an artist, too?” Bubbles opened an exquisite Hermès bag with one fat hand and fumbled out a stack of glossy photographs and a Sharpie.

“Not really, but my mother was.” Ellen took them, photos backside up, as Bubbles came over next to her, giving her shelter with her umbrella. She raised her hand to her cameo, touching her fingers to the smooth wet stone.

There was a blink and a familiar presence, and Ellen thought her explanation all in a rush: Mom, please, it’s an emergency—I need a sketch.

“Well, nice to see you, too, dear,” Mrs. Allworth remarked, glancing to Bubbles, then looking at the end of the upended giant-kudzu-covered bus. “Where are we?”

New Orleans, but I swear, it’s an emergency. We need a sketch of this girl. Ellen remembered her, the girl Nick had seen in the waiting room, the glassy-eyed teen in the crowd, the child Miss Partridge had known and in some part loved, a dozen images.

“She’d be prettier if she didn’t frown like that.” Mrs. Allworth uncapped the pen. “Is this all we have to work with?”

Yes, Mom. But please. I’ve been practicing, but I’m only good with fashions, not faces.

“Of course, dear,” said her mother. “Anything for you.” With sure, swift strokes, she began to sketch a montage of Hoodoo Mama, aka Josephine “Joey” Hebert, one pose after another, angry, wary, sullen, none of them happy. “So,” Mrs. Allworth asked conversationally, “are you seeing anyone?” Ellen couldn’t shield a flash image of Jonathan, and Mrs. Allworth glanced over and raised an eyebrow. “Well,” she sniffed at last, “at least this one’s not dead, but honestly, young man, work on your posture.” She then lowered the edge of her sketch and noticed the wheelchair and the lack of legs. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I—” Then she noticed the lap blanket of poison-green wasps.

She turned away. “I’m not even going to ask.” With one finger, she lifted the choker from her throat, Ellen’s throat, breaking contact between skin and brooch, severing the channel.

“Uh,” said Jonathan as Ellen handed him the sketch, “nice to have met your mom?”

Ellen attempted a grin.

Jonathan looked at the images and his wasps did as well, turning as one to examine each face. A few crawled over them, then began to shake their rear ends, doing a waspish macarena. Then the whole cloud, the lower half of Jonathan Hive, took off, dodging raindrops. “Fly!” Jonathan called. “Fly, my pretties!” He turned to Ellen as she folded up the sketch sheet and slipped it in her purse. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”

“I think you just said it to CNN,” Bubbles pointed out, indicating the lurking news crews.

The Reverend came over next, his suit split down the sides and ground with mud down the front and presumably the back, but otherwise no worse for the wear. “Oh, my poor boy,” the Reverend said, falling to one knee and grasping Jonathan’s left hand. “May I pray for you?”

“Got any prayers for people who lose their asses?”

“Samuel 6:5 and 6:17,” the Reverend said brightly. “God’s right ahead of you there.” He bowed his head, clutching his cross and his Bible in the other hand. “O Lord, please bless this poor sinner and fill him with Your Holy Spirit. Let him be filled and made whole. May—”

“Oh, my God,” said Jonathan, getting religion rather abruptly, staring at the dark sky transfixed, eyes so wide they were almost glowing. “Oh, my God. Brace yourself. It’s coming.”

Reverend Wintergreen bowed his head. “Are you seeing God’s Kingdom, my boy?”

“Worse,” breathed Jonathan. “Harriet.”