besides her life, which had taken on all the aspects of permanent residence in a dentist's chair. A friend had suggested the hobby. That friend was dead, killed a year ago by a drunk driver, her body and mind shattered like, the windows back of the building's garage.
Bad year, Pearl thought, sipping. Worse before.
But the collection helped soothe her, took her mind off the comic-opera confrontation earlier.
The glass dragons stood neatly aligned on top of the dresser, guarding the steady tick of the old clock. Four dragon planters scattered around the room held plants in various stages of decomposition or health. The two coleuses were doing well, but they were notoriously tough.
The dieffenbachia was not as strong, and the purple velvet was nearly dead. But the planters alternately grinned or growled or pouted back at her, unchanged and overly enthusiastic.
Wings and teeth, claws and tails, scales and eyes of various size and composition and color filled the tiny room. They hinted at unknown lands and times, strange worlds where grace and power were the norm instead of the exception and wonderful magics made life a kaleidoscope of unending delight.
At night a dragon light lit the room, its horned head supporting the torn shade, a forty-watt bulb embedded neatly in its upcurving spine. From the ceiling hung a dragon kite, vast paper wings hiding the worst of the peeling plaster. Everywhere dragons concealed, brightened, or served some useful function.
Her thoughts drifted on the smell of decaying kelp and salt. Eventually they came around to consider the mist shape she'd thought she'd seen on the ceiling, wall, and backboard of the bed this morning. A fine dragon shape that had been!
She recalled the vein marks in the wings, the powerful talons, and the floating, limpid eyes. For a vision it had been very well defined. She could imagine herself seeing something like it in a moment of great mental stress. It resembled none of the dragons in her collection, nor any she'd seen but been unable to afford.
Surely it had been staring back at her: Its expression puzzled her. At first she'd imagined it to be a leer, but that could have been due to her own unfortunate position at the time and the circumstances of the moment. It could have been expectation, she thought deliciously. Or perhaps indifference, or contemplation.
Another puzzle came from the name. Ehahm-na-Eulae. All of her dragons had pet names, but nothing like that. It had been there, in her head, simultaneous with the vision. Where had it come from? It sounded faintly biblical, but many strange names sounded 'faintly biblical.' That's a product of your upbringing, she told herself. Life had been more solid in Oklahoma. And colder.
Ehahm-na-Eulae. eHAHM-na-eulae. Oriental, maybe? She'd certainly read enough about Oriental dragons, everything that was available in the local library. Always she had the books to herself. Usually she had the library to herself. In her neighborhood literacy was not considered a prime ingredient for survival.
If not Oriental, not biblical, how about Hindu? She resolved to research the lineage as soon as she had the chance. It would be fun. Anything that involved dragons, even imaginary ones, was pleasurable. It was research in the real world that was difficult. Like trying to locate a real friend or true lover (and forget such fantasies as true love).
She washed the dragon spoon carefully, then the dragon mug. Its tail formed the mug handle. She moved to the dresser and brushed back her hair, the dragon framing the top of the mirror, holding the mirror firmly for her.
The face that looked back at her out of the mirror was used. Lines formed in her forehead like ripples in the sand, and there were sandbags beneath each eye. No time or need for makeup now . . . she tucked the blouse back into her skirt and secured her hair in back with a rubber band.
Next to the dresser was a small cabinet. A dragon of Mexican onyx rested on top. Inside the cabinet were additional clothes, other personal effects, and old movie magazines. The top drawer released a couple of bottles, thick-walled and squat, with seductive mouths now sealed tight by pungent corks. She hesitated, chose one.
She sipped ladylike from it. Honey-colored liquid burned her throat. She stared at the bottle, muttered a silent 'what the hell,' and downed a full, gut-scouring swallow. She recorked the bottle then, inordinately proud of not choking, and forced herself to put it back in the cabinet and close the doors.
Two tiny china dragons flanked the black hulk of the telephone. She stared at it for several minutes before dialing. The click-click ricocheted inside her head. Cigarette. I wish to God I had a cigarette.
The phone made some peculiar, unfamiliar noises. A strange voice came on.
'Is this . . . ?' and the voice repeated Pearl's number.
'Yes . . . operator? What's the trouble?'
'I'm terribly sorry, Miss, uh . . . Sommer. This is the United Telephone business office. There seems to be some discrepancy in our records. You appear to be two months behind in your account? I'm afraid until at least the oldest bill is paid . . . you understand.'
'But I-' She stopped herself. She was a lousy liar. 'Look, please, can I make one collect call?'
'I don't . . .' The voice turned unexpectantly human. 'Collect? I suppose that would be all right. What number would you like, please? I'll try and connect you through this exchange.'
'Thank you, operator, really. I promise I'll get those back payments in right away, right away.' She gave the number. Dialing noises came back at her. Fearsomely beautiful, a dragon on the far wall snarled down at her from a poster and gave her courage.
Faint noises, then: 'I have a collect call for Frank from Pearl. Will you accept the charges?'
Mumbling . . . two mumblings, one female. A single click, final in the room, like the opening of a switchblade. Then the operator's voice, embarrassed.
'I'm sorry, Miss Sommer. The-'
Pearl hung up. On the operator, on Frank, on that incredible little bitch Maureen, on that part of her soiled world. Golden haze clouded her thoughts, and she thought again of the bottles in the cabinet: The onyx dragon guarding it sat expressionless, solid.
No . . . no, dammit.
She happened to glance at the clock. It was nearly eight. Oh, God.
She splurged on bus fare. Normally she walked to work, but she happened to reach the stop just as the bus was pulling up. It would save her twenty-five minutes.
The precious quarter clanked forlornly as it tumbled out of sight into the collection box. She walked unsteadily toward the back of the bus. People turned nervous or curious stares on her. She felt like shouting, screaming back at them. There wasn't a damn thing wrong with her. Not a damn thing! She was as good as any of 'em, better, even. Just some bad luck lately. That didn't affect the way a person looked, did it? Then what were they all staring at? Mind your own goddamn business, she yelled silently at them.
Poor commuters crowded the bus, those unable to afford a car, the Untouchables of the freeway society.
Brakes screeched a shrill about-to-stop warning, and she found herself stumbling forward, oddly fascinated at her inability to keep her balance. A vapid-faced youth in glasses and jeans caught her, kept her from falling. She almost said thank you, until she felt one hand fumbling beneath her skirt.
He smirked at her, the oily grin making her angrier than the cheap feel. He exited the bus before she could curse him.
Her face burning, she slumped into a seat. His hand was branded into her flesh. Down the aisle, an old black leaned on his cane and chuckled at her. She turned away, pressed her forehead against the window. In the chill of early morning it was comfortingly cool. By noon the fog would have burned off and the coast would be sweltering, unusually humid and hot for southern California.
A streamlined, writhing shape cavorted through the air outside the bus and glared with enormous yellow eyes back into her own. She sat up straighter on the worn seat. Ehahm-na-Eulae, she thought excitedly. Again, here, outside the sanctum of her collection.
He was very clear now, the outline sharp and precise, each individual scale outlined in sunlight. This morning's horror, the sallow-faced pervert who'd accosted her, all faded at the sight of the glorious bewinged apparition paralleling the bus.
He kept pace easily, skittering across the tops of cars and trucks. One time he settled himself on the hood of a big semi like the king of all hood ornaments, gleaming talons clutching the engine cover while the triple tongue flicked tantalizingly at her.
He launched himself ahead to perch nimbly on a stoplight, balancing himself with translucent wings that
