Divine Evil

noon, she had worked for six hours without a rest, and her mind and arms were exhausted. After turning off her tanks, she set her torch aside. There was sweat skating down her back, but she ignored it, staring at the figure she'd created while she stripped off gloves, goggles, skullcap.
    Cautiously she circled it, studying it from all sides, all angles. It was three feet in height, coldly black, apparently seamless. It had come from her deepest and most confused fears-an unmistakably human form with a head that was anything but human. The hint of horns, a snarl for a mouth. While the human part seemed to be bent over in supplication, the head was thrown back in triumph.
    It gave her a chill to study it. A chill of both fear and pride.
    It was good, she thought as she pressed a hand to her mouth. It was really good. For reasons she didn't understand, she sat on the concrete floor and wept.
    Alice Crampton had lived in Emmitsboro all her life. She'd been out of state twice, once for a reckless weekendin Virginia Beach with Marshall Wickers right after he'd joined the navy and once for a week in New Jersey when she'd visited her cousin, Sheila, who had married an optometrist. Other than that, she'd spent nearly every day of her life in the town where she'd been born.
    Sometimes she resented it. But mostly, she didn't think about it. Her dream was to save enough money to move to some big, anonymous city where the customers were strangers who tipped big. For now, she served coffee and country ham sandwiches to people she'd known all her life and who rarely gave her a tip at all.
    She was a wide-hipped, full-breasted woman who filled out her pink and white uniform in a way the male clientele appreciated. Some, like Less Gladhill, might leer and gawk, but no one would have tried for a pinch. She went to church every Sunday and guarded the virtue she felt Marshall Wickers had trampled on.
    No one had to tell her to keep the counters clean or to laugh at a customer's jokes. She was a good, conscientious waitress with tireless feet and an unshakable memory. If you ordered your burger rare once, you wouldn't have to remind her of it on your next visit to Martha's.
    Alice Crampton didn't think about waitressing as a bridge to another, more sophisticated career. She liked what she did, if she didn't always like where she did it.
    In the reflection of the big coffeepot, she tidied her frizzed blond hair and wondered if she could manage a trip to Betty's Shop of Beauty the following week.
    The order for table four came up, and she hefted her tray, carting it across the diner to the voice of Tammy Wynette.
    When Clare walked into Martha's, the place was hopping, just as she remembered it from hundreds of Saturday afternoons. She could smell the fried onions, the hamburgergrease, someone's florid perfume, and good, hot coffee.
    The jukebox was the same one that had been in place more than ten years before. As Wynette entreated womenkind to stand by their men, Clare figured its selections hadn't changed, either. There was the clatter of flatware and the din of voices no one bothered to lower. Feeling just fine, she took a seat at the counter and opened the plastic menu.
    “Yes, ma'am, what can I get you?”
    She lowered the menu, then dropped it. “Alice? Alice, it's Clare.”
    Alice's polite smile opened to a wide
O
of astonishment. “Clare Kimball! I heard you were back. You look great. Oh, gosh, just great.”
    “It's so good to see you.” Clare was already gripping Alice's hard, capable hands in hers. “God, we have to talk. I want to know how you are, what you've been doing. Everything.”
    “I'm fine. And this is it.” She laughed and gave Claire's hands a squeeze before releasing them. “What can I get you? You want coffee? We don't have any of that ex-presso stuff they drink in New York.”
    “I want a burger with everything, the greasiest fries you can come up with, and a chocolate shake.”
    “Your stomach hasn't changed. Hold on, let me put the order in.” She called it back, picked up another order. “By the time Frank's finished burning the meat, I can take a break,” she said, then scurried off.
    Clare watched her serve, pour coffee, scribble down orders, and ring up bills. Fifteen minutes later, Clare had a plate of food and a well of admiration.
    “Christ, you're really good at this.” She doused her fries with catsup as Alice sat on the stool beside her.
    “Well, everybody's got to be good at