“Yes,” said Shadow. “I grew.”
She turned back to Wednesday, who was spooning down a bowl of what looked like cold gumbo. “Is this the boy who’s got everybody so upset?”
“You heard?”
“I keep my ears pricked up,” she said. Then to Shadow, “You keep out of their way. There are too many secret societies out there, and they have no loyalties and no love. Commercial, independent, government, they’re all in the same boat. They range from the barely competent to the deeply dangerous. Hey, old wolf, I heard a joke you’d like the other day. How do you know the CIA wasn’t involved in the Kennedy assassination?”
“I’ve heard it,” said Wednesday.
“Pity.” She turned her attention back to Shadow. “But the spook show, the ones you met, they’re something else. They exist because everyone knows they must exist.” She drained a paper cup of something that looked like white wine, and then she got to her feet. “Shadow’s a good name,” she said. “I want a mochaccino. Come on.”
She began to walk away. “What about the food?” asked Wednesday. “You can’t just leave it here.”
She smiled at him, and pointed to the girl sitting by the dog, and then extended her arms to take in the Haight and the world. “Let it feed them,” she said, and she walked, with Wednesday and Shadow trailing behind her.
“Remember,” she said to Wednesday, as they walked, “I’m rich. I’m doing just peachy. Why should I help you?”
“You’re one of us,” he said. “You’re as forgotten and as unloved and unremembered as any of us. It’s pretty clear whose side you should be on.”
They reached a sidewalk coffeehouse, went inside, sat down. There was only one waitress, who wore her eyebrow ring as a mark of caste, and a woman making coffee behind the counter. The waitress advanced upon them, smiling automatically, sat them down, took their orders.
Easter put her slim hand on the back of Wednesday’s square gray hand. “I’m telling you,” she said, “I’m doing fine. On my festival days they still feast on eggs and rabbits, on candy and on flesh, to represent rebirth and copulation. They wear flowers in their bonnets and they give each other flowers. They do it in my name. More and more of them every year. In my name, old wolf.”
“And you wax fat and affluent on their worship and their love?” he said, dryly.
“Don’t be an asshole.” Suddenly she sounded very tired. She sipped her mochaccino.
“Serious question, m’dear. Certainly I would agree that millions upon millions of them give each other tokens in your name, and that they still practice all the rites of your festival, even down to hunting for hidden eggs. But how many of them know who you are? Eh? Excuse me, miss?” This to their waitress.
She said, “You need another espresso?”
“No, my dear. I was just wondering if you could solve a little argument we were having over here. My friend and I were disagreeing over what the word ‘Easter’ means. Would you happen to know?”
The girl stared at him as if green toads had begun to push their way between his lips. Then she said, “I don’t know about any of that Christian stuff. I’m a pagan.”
The woman behind the counter said, “I think it’s like Latin or something for ‘Christ has risen,’ maybe.”
“Really?” said Wednesday.
“Yeah, sure,” said the woman. “Easter. Just like the sun rises in the east, you know.”
“The risen son. Of course—a most logical supposition.” The woman smiled and returned to her coffee grinder. Wednesday looked up at their waitress. “I think I shall have another espresso, if you do not mind. And tell me, as a pagan, who do you worship?”
“Worship?”
“That’s right. I imagine you must have a pretty wide-open field. So to whom do you set up your household altar? To whom do you bow down? To whom do you pray at dawn and at dusk?”
Her lips described several shapes without saying anything before she said, “The female principle. It’s an empowerment thing. You know?”
“Indeed. And this female principle of yours. Does she have a name?”
“She’s t
he goddess within us all,” said the girl with the eyebrow ring, color rising to her cheek. “She doesn’t need a name.”
“Ah,” said Wednesday, with a wide monkey grin, “so do you have mighty bacchanals in her honor? Do you drink blood wine under the full moon while scarlet candles burn in silver candleholders? Do you step naked into the seafoam, chanting ecstatically to your nameless goddess while the waves lick at your legs, lapping your thighs like the tongues of a thousand leopards?”
“You’re making fun of me,” she said. “We don’t do any of that stuff you were saying.” She took a deep breath. Shadow suspected she was counting to ten. “Any more coffees here? Another mochaccino for you, ma’am?” Her smile was a lot like the one she had greeted them with when they had entered.